Red Light Green Light
by shadow-girl56
Summary: "It's cold out," Quinn says. She leans in, elbows resting on the counter, hazel eyes imploring Rachel's in a manner that's both patient and pragmatic. "Maybe you'd like something warm to drink?" FABERRY AU
1. I Don't Wanna Talk About It

**Hello friends. Please excuse the incredibly out of season holiday theme. I guess this just proves I'm the type to leave their Christmas lights up all year round.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters. This is just for fun (the non-profit kind).**

* * *

_I Don't Wanna Talk About It_

She's like, semi-okay with what's happening right now. _Semi_, as in kind of, as in not really. Not at all.

When Kurt had suggested they host their own little Friendsgiving, she'd had this crazy romantic idea that at least _one_ friend of hers would be in attendance.

But out of the two dozen "friends" mingling around her apartment, she recognizes exactly one of them, whose name, of all the names in the world, happens to be Adam of the Adam's Apples.

And, okay, he's _nice_, and she's pretty sure Kurt has a crush on him, but she can't shake the feeling that he's secretly some 30-year-old posing as a broke college kid. Something's off. She can't quite put her finger on it, except that he's just one of those people you look at and go, "Really?"

The same could be said of the cast of characters he brought with him. They're all dressed like pretentious homeless people, with strategically-ripped holes in their designer sweaters and flannel shirts. They could've easily gotten lost on their way to an audition for Roger from _Rent_.

And she would be happy to inform each and every one of them that they did not get the part.

_Nice mood, Rachel. That's the spirit._

Alright, so maybe she's a little pouty because she couldn't afford to fly home this Thanksgiving. Her fathers had offered to buy her a plane ticket, naturally, but she'd refused.

It had seemed like the adult decision at the time. Not to mention she and Kurt _both _agreed to have these be the "Doing It On My Own" chapters of their future memoirs.

But while Kurt's swooning over Adam—all forty-five years of him—she's brooding, friendless, in the corner. By choice, yes. But still.

And yes, this is quite literally a testament to how few lasting relationships she's maintained since moving to New York nearly two and a half years ago.

She had Brody, for a little while...and then, suddenly, she didn't have him at all. Same with Finn, except that story's a tad more convoluted. Longer, too. And no, she doesn't feel like going into it.

She also doesn't feel like being aggressively hit on by the guy in the striped scarf (_did he forget to tell her his name, or did she forget to care?_)

Go away, Striped Scarf! Go away, Adam's Apples.

In light of the holiday season, she'd just like to say: "Who the hell _are _these people?" Why are they treating her vegan charcuterie board like the vegan horn of plenty? Everyone should just _get out_.

Because screw this. This is not Friendsgiving. This is Strangers Taking.

She's got to go.

* * *

She stumbles upon a coffee shop called Rising Star. If she was in a better mood she might entertain the notion that it was named after her. But her mood is crap, because she has no friends and she lost her favorite mittens on the subway yesterday, so she approaches the door with chattering teeth and a cloud of gloom hanging over her head.

But at least the coffee shop is a pocket of soft sweater-y goodness when she enters it. The warmth literally wraps her up and takes her right in.

There isn't another customer in sight and her gaze sweeps curiously around the room before falling on a mop of feminine blonde hair behind the counter. Her face is obscured, her head bent over a book; a very _good_ book, apparently, and Rachel hates to be the one to bother her in the middle of it.

The girl is _completely _absorbed in her reading. It's charming, soothing in the strangest way. Rachel could turn right around and vanish quietly out the door, having already got what she came for without the blonde ever knowing she'd been there at all.

She stays put, however, holding her tongue in silence a moment longer. She likes to think she's giving the girl the space to finish whatever page that she's on.

"Pardon me," Rachel says finally.

The blonde's head snaps up, hair falling away from her face, Rachel's mouth falling open at the sight of...

"Quinn."

"Rachel."

* * *

It's the strangest thing. In two and a half years, New York has shown her every eccentricity under the sun. Just yesterday she bought a bagel from a grown man dressed in a onesie and hardly batted an eye. But she simply _cannot_ wrap her head around the image of Quinn Fabray, former head cheerleader, standing behind the counter of the coffee shop slash alternate universe she just stepped into.

On the flip side, _Quinn Fabray_, queen of reining in her emotions, appears almost criminally unfazed. She'd been caught off guard initially, sure, but now her expression is polite, customer service-like, generic even, as if the only pressing issue on her mind is, _Decaf or regular?_

"Rachel?" Quinn asks. "Can I get you anything?"

"What? No. I mean, yes—I mean...sorry, what?"

Quinn tilts her head to the side. "I mean, you must've come here for a reason...a coffee, maybe?" She points to the chalkboard menu behind her. "What would you like? Anything?"

Rachel's not sure. It's true, she must've wanted something, at some point, but she remains blindsided by this barista dressed up as a choppy-haired, slightly hipster-ish version of a girl she used to know. Her sweater is grunge-y, oversized, and Dad-like, puffing out around the edges of a dark green apron. Her name tag serves as confirmation that she actually _is_ a girl named "Quinn." And then there's the beanie—faded and frayed with artfully-ripped holes letting little tufts of blonde filter through. Contrary to her Skank days, nothing about her suggests she's picking fights with the world, daring you to have a problem. All in all, she looks cute, in a vaguely heartbreaking sort of way.

Rachel will have to wait and unpack that later.

For now, as coherent thoughts begin forming on the tip of her tongue, she stammers, "I'm...I, uh..."

"It's cold out," Quinn supplies. She leans in, elbows resting on the counter, hazel eyes imploring Rachel's in a manner that's both patient and pragmatic. "Maybe you'd like something warm to drink?"

"Warm?" Rachel asks. "Warm, yes. Yes, sure. I mean, I...okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

A beat of silence, and then Quinn raises her eyebrows expectantly. "So, coffee?"

"Sure."

"Great." Quinn pivots toward the stack of to-go cups on her left, but halts before retrieving one. "We also have tea, you know."

Rachel doesn't know anything.

"You drink tea, don't you?" Quinn presses.

"Yes." Rachel exhales, her breath steadying. "Yes, Quinn, I do."

Quinn stares at her intently for a moment, then nods. "Alright. I'll get you some."

* * *

"This tea is lovely," Rachel says, breaking the silence.

Quinn eyes her skeptically, as if to say _how would you know, you haven't even tried it?_

It's true, Rachel has yet to lay a finger on her steaming mug of Cinnamon Guru Chai. Quinn had mentioned it was one of their special autumn flavors, and, well, it's always nice to be special in autumn, isn't it? Not that Rachel knows the feeling; not lately, anyway.

"I can get you something else if you don't—"

"No," Rachel insists. "No, Quinn, don't be silly. And thank you. I'm sure this is, in fact, a very hearty, aromatic blend of seasonal…" she stops mid-rant, exhaling deeply as she attempts to gather her thoughts. There's just a few things she'd like to unpack here before moving forward.

"Quinn, I'm...confused. Confused is putting it mildly. I mean—this is _New York_. And I'm sure you're well aware of that, because people tend to know where they are, but I'm just telling you, I'm a little thrown off here. And I don't think you're being deliberately obtuse, acting as if this an ordinary everyday thing that we do...because it isn't."

"I know," Quinn says. Several emotions flicker across her face, some readable, some not, and Rachel thinks to herself, _Now THERE'S a girl I used to know._

"I don't really know what to say," Quinn goes on, eyes twitching around nervously as she averts Rachel's gaze. She'd been confident a minute ago when helping a stunned, stupefied Rachel decide on a drink order; now, when pressed for an explanation, she's practically crawling inside herself, pulling her sweater up over her face as if she could pass for someone else entirely. "I sort of just...work here."

She leaves it at that, as if Rachel ought to just fill in the blanks herself, assume that a series of random, incidental happenings landed Quinn in this cozy little far-flung corner of New York City. There's more to the story, of course, but apparently nothing worth mentioning.

Rachel doesn't buy it, but knows better than to push and prod the girl for answers she isn't offering up willingly. "I see," Rachel says, nodding. She can pretend this is all fine and normal, if it's what Quinn needs. "Well, it's a lovely place, Quinn. Very quaint and charming. Do you like it here?"

Quinn shrugs. "I like the work...I like _not_ working too," she admits, nodding toward the overturned book on the counter.

Rachel blushes slightly. "Well, I felt bad for interrupting your reading just now. I stood in complete silence for a minute, just watching you. Which...sounds creepy, I realize, but you just looked so blissfully absorbed. Your book, whatever it is, must certainly be captivating."

"Yes, very captivating," Quinn agrees, her expression deadpan save for the faint twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

It doesn't go unnoticed by Rachel, who frowns. She is _not_ amused, thank you very much, and a sort of staring contest ensues. Rachel feigns indignation, her bottom lip jutting out comically as Quinn pulls a face of haughty, _do I know you?_ indifference.

Rachel is first to break. She cuts up laughing and doesn't even know why. It's just funny, for some odd reason. And then Quinn laughs too, because...just _because_.

Sometimes it's okay to just laugh it off, just admit you don't actually know what's even happening right now.

"Quinn," Rachel says, a stray giggle bubbling from her throat. "Do you not want to talk about it?"

Quinn considers this briefly, then shakes her head. "I don't, really. Not right now."

Rachel nods in understanding. "It's fine," she says, smiling softly. A thought occurs to her then, and her brow furrows in concern. "But Quinn, are you alone? It's Thanksgiving."

The blonde shrugs dismissively as her gaze finds the floor.

"Quinn," Rachel sighs, her voice hitting a note of sadness. It's not like she can say much better for herself, but at least she has Kurt to go home to. She has her Dads, too; both are six hundred miles away in Lima, but she technically does _have_ them, in her heart, where it counts. The same place she's certain they have her.

"It's fine," Quinn says abruptly. "I mean, don't feel bad for me or anything. The manager needed someone to work the holiday, so I offered. It's no big deal."

Rachel starts to apologize. She doesn't mean to _pity_ Quinn's current predicament. It isn't a half-bad deal, honestly: spending the high-calorie holiday in peaceful, sodium-free solitude, rather than suffering the company of bickering and dysfunctional relatives. So she swallows her apology, fixes her face so that it's neutral, not bleeding sympathy out of her eyes like a moment ago. "You're smart," she says. "I mean, if given the opportunity to spend the holiday holed up in a place like this, I too would have seized it in a heartbeat."

Quinn looks at her curiously. "Really? I just thought—I mean, I would've assumed you'd be the type to—" she rolls her eyes "—to go _home for the holidays_ or whatever."

"Well, I certainly would've liked to, but you see, I'm sort of trying this whole 'doing it on my own' thing," she explains, gesturing with her hands to emphasize the theatrical grandness of it all.

"Interesting," Quinn says monotonously. "So what exactly _are_ you doing?"

Rachel shakes her head, brow furrowing. "I don't...actually know."

Quinn's face remains impassive, but there's a flicker of understanding in her eyes; as if she might know a thing or two about _not_ knowing.

"Quinn?" Rachel asks after a beat.

"Hm?"

"Would you like to maybe, possibly hang out later? After your shift is up, that is...I mean, unless you, you have other plans, in which case—"

"Sure," Quinn answers. Her delivery is unflinching, but there's a note of indifference in her voice, the verbal equal of a shrug. Rachel can't help but hear it as a, _Sure why not? I've got nothing better to do_.

But come now, this isn't cow town Ohio where the pickings are slim, and anyone is liable to take any old thing they can get, for little reason other than: _it's there_. No, this is the big time, New York City. The potential is infinite, and the notion that there are better things to do is always a given. One doesn't simply resign to spend an evening with an old glee club acquaintance out of sheer boredom. "Boredom" shouldn't even be in a New Yorker's vocabulary. If it is, you're doing something terribly, terribly wrong.

So Rachel pushes down her insecurities, straightening her posture as she holds Quinn's gaze with confidence. "Wonderful," she states.

Quinn stares at her, eyebrows raised in anticipation. She thought Rachel Berry would have a _lot_ more to say about that. Apparently not, and after a beat of silence she pushes off the counter and reaches for a nearby dishtowel. "I'm off at six," she says casually.

"Great," Rachel says, smiling brightly. Her gaze slides over to the antique cuckoo-clock mounted on the wall. It's an old clock that does appear to know the present time. Five-fifty-eight, she notes with some confusion before shifting her gaze back to the blonde. "Quinn, that's in two minutes."

Quinn shrugs. "I can close whenever I want, honestly. Don't think the boss would object." She makes a gesture denoting the emptiness of the place. It's true, the customers don't appear to be piling in by the truckload. "Do you mind waiting here while I shut everything down? Should take about twenty minutes."

"Oh please, take your time," Rachel insists.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Rachel shakes her head, hands grasping her now comfortably warm mug of tea. "No, Quinn. Thank you, I'm perfectly fine. Do you need any help—"

"No," Quinn insists. "No, I'm good. I've got it. You just make yourself comfortable...okay?"

And Rachel does. She settles into the overstuffed chair nearest the counter, marveling at what is possibly the strangest turn of events she could've fathomed. _Quinn sweeps the floor like Cinderella_, she muses, her eyes following the girl's graceful movements while she quietly sips her tea.

Had her focus wavered in the slightest, she might've noted something funny. Rather than pour her tea into one of the disposable to-go cups, Quinn had instead opted for a store-owned ceramic mug.

Which might as well be the "stay and _don't_ go" cups; the kind you can't dispose of easily.

* * *

It's a slow reveal as Rachel heaves the enormous wooden door aside, wincing from both the exertion and the grating sound it makes. Not the most flattering introduction to her apartment, but it will have to do.

Thankfully Kurt and his guests have already cleared out, but not before leaving a post-Thanksgiving disaster in their wake. Dishes in the sink, red solo cups everywhere, food on the...couch? Ugh_._ She will _so _rip into Kurt later. Didn't he know _Quinn Fabray_ would be dropping by this evening?

"Wow. Nice," Quinn comments, a note of intrigue in her voice as she follows Rachel inside.

"Sorry for the mess."

"What mess?" Quinn asks, her upturned gaze roaming over the large, warehouse-like interior of the place.

Rather than point out the obvious—god, can she take one single step that doesn't go _crunch_ beneath her feet?—she asks, "Can I get you anything?"

When Quinn doesn't respond, Rachel adopts a more patient stance, head tilting to the side as she studies Quinn studying the intricacies before her. She _could _provide a running commentary to help enhance the visual; explain the logistics of how and why she'd wound up ditching freshman dorm life for this spacious, albeit severely lacking in room dividers, apartment in the city.

She spares Quinn the backstory, however. She hardly remembers it herself.

Still, this lingering spell of silence isn't something she can relax comfortably into. She needs feedback; preferably _good _feedback. Otherwise, she can only assume Quinn's had one foot out the door since the moment she walked in. Rachel wouldn't exactly blame her. After all, this charming abode that Kurt likes to call "urban decay chic" could just as easily be a haven for drug lords and pimps. How could Quinn _not _regret following her home to this unsavory armpit of the city? She's probably about two seconds away from using the Emergency SOS feature on her phone—

"Your place is amazing," Quinn says, turning to face Rachel.

...Then again, her apartment _is _quite charming, isn't it? So rustic, with its exposed beams and bricks. Such an aesthetic, honestly. The stuff Pinterest boards are made of!

Rachel never doubted it for a second.

"Why thank you, Quinn," she says, the compliment drawing an unexpected shyness out of her. She briefly plays it over in her head, searching for a note of sarcasm in Quinn's tone. Finding none, she smiles graciously at her hazel-eyed guest who is still wearing her coat. "Oh, Quinn," she says, hurrying forward with her arms outstretched. "Here, let me take your coat."

Quinn complies without protest, shedding her oversized sandstone-colored jacket. In her eagerness to be a good host, Rachel loses all concept of personal space, steps in closer to her guest, and then steps, more like _stomps _on her guest's foot. They just miss bumping noses, and Rachel lets out a shriek before jumping back as if she's been burned. "Oh God, I—I'm so—"

"It's fine," Quinn says.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn, how clumsy of me. You aren't hurt, are you?" She stares down at Quinn's boot-clad foot, brows knitted in grave concern (as if she even knows what she's looking for.)

"Rachel?"

Quinn's calm voice pulls her out of whatever absurd medical drama she thinks she's starring in. She drags her gaze upward, stopping when she meets spectacularly unbothered hazel.

"I'm fine," Quinn reiterates, then leans in slightly as if about to dispel the greatest myth of all time. "You're not going to kill me with your toes."

Rachel chuckles weakly, cheeks flaming. "Yes, well..." She clears her throat, ducks her head low, then extents a stiff arm out toward her guest, keeping an almost comically safe distance this time.

Quinn just stares in confusion, as if watching modern dance. She tilts her head to the side, trying to gain a better interpretive vantage point, but she truly has no idea what even.

Silence abounds until Rachel finally clarifies her intentions.

"Coat?" she asks.

"Oh!" Quinn says. "Oh, right. Um...here you go."

"Thank you."

"Thank _you_."

Rachel's smile is so forced it hurts. _Ouch, ouch, ouch._ The pains of awkward social interaction.

She turns and carries the hefty mass of material across the room, feeling the urge to gasp for air. Halfway to her makeshift bedroom, her senses unwillingly come alive. Quinn's coat smells like the cold; or rather, coming _in_ from the cold. There's also the unmistakable trace of cigarettes, which Rachel silently berates the girl for, despite not being altogether put off by the scent.

After laying the coat on her bed, she takes care to fix the collar and smooth out the wrinkles. She lingers in the bedroom a moment longer, staring down at the rugged piece of clothing. She hopes it keeps Quinn very warm.

She finds Quinn crouched on the floor in the living room, flipping through her collection of vinyl.

"See anything you like?" Rachel asks.

Quinn glances up and cracks a smile. "It's a nice collection," she says.

"Really? The excess of showtunes doesn't put you off?"

Quinn shrugs lightly. "I don't know that I'd call it excess. More like...tiny excess."

Rachel's not quite sure what to do with that; with _anything_, really, so she moves to sit on the couch, eyes narrowed in on the blonde, who now stares intently at her copy of _Blue_ by Joni Mitchell.

"That's a good one," Rachel supplies.

Quinn murmurs in agreement, then shifts her eyes to Rachel. "May I?" she asks.

"Of course," Rachel says, happy to have the blonde take initiative. She settles in against the couch cushions as Quinn places the delicate vinyl onto the record player. As soon as the music starts Quinn scoots over to the upholstered chair opposite the couch. Rachel tracks her movements, brow furrowing as Quinn remains seated on the floor, back against the chair, knees drawn up to her chest.

It's on the tip of Rachel's tongue to suggest that she might try _sitting _comfortably in the chair itself. She swallows the words before speaking them; she lets Quinn do as she pleases.

She can't, however, go on like this. Just sitting here with Quinn, listening to music and watching the snow fall, as if...as if this is _them_. It isn't, and they don't do this, haven't _ever_ done this, and Rachel's still baffled as to what possessed them to start now.

Oddly enough, Quinn speaks up without so much as a nudge from Rachel. "So I live here now," she offers. "I mean, not literally _here_—"

"I know," Rachel interrupts. "I mean, I knew what you meant."

"Right. I moved to the city six months ago, after I…" She hesitates. "After I left Yale."

The news is far from earth-shattering to Rachel; she'd had a hunch that Quinn and a certain school in Connecticut were no longer one, at least not currently. Still, she tries to show _some_ measure of surprise in her reaction. She doesn't want to appear unfazed, as if she'd merely expected an outcome like this.

Come to think of it, she'd truly had no clear-cut expectations of Quinn, except that she would flourish and be beautiful, always.

"You left?" Rachel asks, treading lightly.

Hazel eyes take a quick, restless flight around the room before landing back on Rachel's. "Yeah," she says.

There's a note of finality in Quinn's tone, and Rachel gathers that "yeah" is both the beginning and the end of the story. "Okay," Rachel says, nodding slowly. "Well, I'm sure you had your reasons."

Quinn looks contemplative for only a moment, then dismisses the whole thing—whatever it was. She shrugs, an airy "hm" sound escaping her as she plucks a piece of lint from her sweater.

Rachel, in her lack of any insight whatsoever, can only assume that, yes, Quinn had her reasons, and perhaps lint was one of them.

Yes, that's right, _lint_.

It certainly appears to be quite the pressing issue all of a sudden as another pesky particle of fluff captures Quinn's wandering eye, and then another and another. She takes care to pluck each one thoroughly from her sweater, flicking them into the air and watching them swirl and flutter and fall as if making fuzzy lint rain.

Rachel watches with rapt attention, not really knowing why. She's mind-bogglingly captivated by this strange, strange diversion that Quinn has created.

_What is happening?_

The reality police finally clubs her over the head. She snaps from her daze, blinking rapidly, then fixes her gaze on Quinn. "Would you like a roller?" she asks, tone rather abrupt.

Quinn is a bit slow on the uptake as her gaze drifts lazily over to Rachel's. "Pardon?" she asks.

"A lint roller. To roll your lint. You seem to be having quite a little bit of a problem."

Quinn's head dips slightly in embarrassment. "Uh, no, I think I'm good...but thanks."

"You're sure? Because believe me, you've come to the right place. Kurt keeps a package of Scotch-Brites in every drawer of the apartment." She shakes her head, scoffing at her roommate's antics. "You'd think they were condoms," she adds, then blushes to the tips of her ears.

Quinn reacts similarly, eyes darting to the floor as she squirms in her seat.

Rachel feels a surge of satisfaction at having just scandalized the former head cheerleader. Quinn didn't know Rachel Berry had it in her! A smug grin tugs at her lips. Yes, Rachel Berry most certainly _does _have it in her. Always has, always will.

Errr...wait, what? No, scratch that—she didn't mean—

"Well, let's hope he never confuses the two," Quinn says, embarrassment wiped from her face as if she's never known the feeling.

Now it's Rachel's turn to squirm. She recovers quickly, then opens her mouth to speak, realizing immediately that she'd prefer to never speak of this again. She snaps her mouth shut, feeling the urge to switch gears before the conversation derails any further. To her relief, Quinn switches them on her own.

"I love this song," Quinn says.

Song? What song? Oh yes, the song playing currently. Rachel listens. It's "River" by Joni Mitchell. Rachel knows that one by heart.

Quinn obviously knows it too, her eyes watching the record revolve as her body sways in time with the music. Her knees are drawn in tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them like a lonely little hug.

Rachel smiles at the sight. Whatever this is, she's glad they're doing it. She's _so_ glad Quinn's here.

She continues gazing thoughtfully at her guest, who appears to be a little lost...in the music, that is. "Does it make you sad?" Rachel asks.

Quinn looks at her. "The song?"

Rachel nods.

Quinn's brow furrows in contemplation. "In a happy way, yeah, I suppose it does."

The song ends, the record crackles like logs on a fire. Companionable silence falls over them like a blanket as Rachel tucks her feet underneath her, burrowing deeper into the couch as if she intends to stay there all winter.

Quinn looks as if she could to the same. Then, out of the nowhere, she sits up alertly as if someone just whispered the time in her ear. "Well, I should probably go," she says, then rises to her feet.

Rachel looks up at her in confusion. "Oh...are you sure? It's awfully late to be walking home all by yourself. Unless..." she breaks off, eyes widening as a realization strikes her. "Quinn, you're not—I mean you _do_ have a place to go home to...don't you?"

Quinn stares at her for a moment. "Are you asking me if I live on the street?"

Rachel tries to show in her expression that it was a purely baseless assumption, a stab in the dark. Nothing whatsoever to do with the holes in Quinn's sweater. Definitely not the huge gaping one near her collarbone, which she's trying to look anywhere _but_ directly at.

And she wants to be clear that despite looking more like a vagrant than a Park Avenue penthouse dweller, Quinn still looks...beautiful.

To get this, among other points across, she stammers, "I—I just...I thought maybe you—"

"Rachel," Quinn begins, taking a step forward, "I have an apartment two miles from here." She fishes something from her pocket—her iPhone. "I'm going to take an Uber, though, since it's a long walk and these boots kill my feet."

She goes right to work, using modern technology to summon the car that will deliver her to the home she does, in fact, have, and that will keep her off the streets of which she _does not_ live upon.

Rachel's cheeks might as well be stained a permanent shade of crimson. After a brief spin around the block, she's right back in the familiar neighborhood of sheer mortification. She never should've left to begin with.

"What's your street address?" Quinn asks.

Rachel tells her, then says, "Quinn, I'm sorry. How incredibly foolish of me to even _consider_ your not having a place of residence. I certainly didn't mean to imply that you…" she trails off and shakes her head. "Well. Anyway, I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"It's fine," Quinn says absently, eyes fastened to her phone.

Rachel narrows her gaze at the blonde, lips pursing in faint annoyance. She clears her throat. "So is there anything else I can help you with?" she asks, adding a dash of chirpiness to her tone.

Because she's helped _so much_ already.

Quinn makes a few more swipes and taps against her phone, finalizing her transaction before lifting her eyes to Rachel's. "Nope," she says. "My ride should be here any minute. I just, um, need my coat."

They hold each other's gaze for a moment.

"Of course," Rachel says, voice a bit tight. She peels off toward her bedroom, officially irritated with the blonde, without really knowing why. It's mostly because she's leaving.

When she returns to the living room she finds Quinn staring straight at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape as if she's been caught in the middle of a lie.

Rachel's a bit taken aback as she stiffly extends the coat out to her guest. "Here you go."

"Come see me tomorrow," Quinn blurts out.

"What? Where?"

"At the coffee shop," Quinn answers. Confidence seems to repossess her on the spot as she accepts her coat from Rachel's grasp. "I'm working eight to five. You should stop in for a minute, if you can."

Despite Quinn's antics giving her whiplash, Rachel nods, smiling softly. "Yes, I'd like that, Quinn. Thank you."

"Thank _you _for having me."

Rachel's about to tell her what a pleasure it was when the door slides open and Kurt breezes into the apartment. His head is down as he crosses the room in hurried strides, waving distractedly at Rachel and Random Blonde Girl.

"Hi Kurt," Rachel says.

"Hey Rach."

"Hi Kurt."

"Hey Quinn."

He's halfway to his bedroom when he stops on a dime, nearly tripping and falling over himself before whirling around, face scrunched in confusion. The shock wears off quickly, recognition settling over him as he places a hand on his hip, then huffs in irritation. "Oh, so _now_ you're friends?" he asks.

Quinn and Rachel look at each other and dissolve into giggles.


	2. Poetry and Stuff

_Poetry and Stuff_

The following day, Rachel does indeed _stop in for a minute_, as Quinn had suggested. She has more than a minute to spare, what with school being closed for Thanksgiving break. Her part-time job at the NYADA Admissions Office is a no-go as well. Aside from her morning workout and prepping for her Music Theory exam, she's free as a bird.

Which isn't to say that she's right there, front and center, when Quinn arrives for work that morning. Instead, she lets the day wear on, not venturing out into the cold until mid-afternoon. It isn't about being fashionably late on purpose; tardiness of the deliberate kind is _always _out of style in her book. There isn't an ounce of _wait and see if I actually show up _behind her actions either. Rachel doesn't play those kinds of games.

What she really wants is to give Quinn some space, on the off-chance that she might wish to retract her invitation. Or better yet, quit her job and flee the city. Or perhaps fake her own death, even. Anything to keep _Rachel Berry_ from becoming a regular, consistent fixture in her every day experience.

She's only being dramatic—which is to say that she's only being herself. She can't really do otherwise, and so, head a little messy, she approaches the door to Rising Star. It's another frigid day in the city, but at least she's wearing her favorite mittens this time.

Unlike yesterday, the place is bustling with customers. Quinn's there, behind the counter. Her eyes are downcast, face pinched in irritation as she scrambles to fill ten orders at once. Everyone can see she's dying to bury her nose in a book and never speak to another human being ever again.

Or perhaps it's only Rachel that notices.

She lingers non-committally by the door, wondering if it'd be better to just come back another day. She doesn't think she ought to monopolize Quinn's time, force her to make small talk when she's already up to her ears in customer demands. It's doubtful that Quinn would have invited her at all, had she known her entire shift would be swamped from start to finish.

Once again, she contemplates just vanishing out the door without making her presence known to the girl behind the counter. She's inching away, slowly, eyes on Quinn, when suddenly, out of nowhere, something pulls the blonde's focus forward. You would think someone had just whispered in her ear that a Miss Rachel Berry was here to see her.

Whatever the case, Quinn's head snaps up, her eyes locking instantly with Rachel's.

Rachel almost gasps, as if a sheet has just been yanked off of her, revealing her there.

At the sight of Rachel, Quinn lights up like a Christmas tree. Something like relief settles over her, then sparkles in those hazel eyes. It's as if she'd feared Rachel wouldn't come at all.

Rachel can't help but light up too—like a menorah, she supposes. It's the strangest thing. She recalls the previous night when, without meaning to, she'd caught, or rather stumbled upon Quinn in the midst of what had looked to be a raw, unguarded moment. This feels almost identical as she watches Quinn's mouth fall open as if poised to call out Rachel's name across the room. The impulse softens, and Quinn smiles as if her insides have just been lined with teddy bears.

Rachel feels it too, the softness.

It isn't until the young man behind the cash register barks a pumpkin-spiced order at her that Quinn stirs from her daze, that lightness about her diminishing as she reluctantly breaks their gaze.

Rachel feels the loss of contact; _eye_ contact, that is. It takes her a moment to come back to earth, and when she does, she half-expects to find the other customers staring in awe of what has just occurred. In actual fact, no one appears to have noticed a thing. It's business as usual, with Quinn grinding away behind the counter as if she'd merely paused to scratch her nose.

Rachel grabs a spot in line, intent on staying a while longer. When it's her turn to order, the young man whose name tag reads "Claude" asks her what she'd like. She'd like it better if Quinn was the one asking. Nevertheless she smiles brightly at Claude, then orders the same tea as yesterday while casting a little side-eye over at the barista on her left. The blonde doesn't lift her head up, but Rachel catches those lips flirting with a grin as she works.

She steps to the side and waits and when her order is up she finds a ceramic mug of tea sitting on the counter. A quick scan of the room assures her that this is not the norm. While other customers are being issued the standard _please take your drink and go_ cups, it seems as though somebody behind the counter might like it if Rachel stayed.

And stay she does. Tea in hand, she settles into the chair nearest the counter. This is where she remains for the next hour, eyes peering out over the round brim of her mug. More than once, Quinn just so happens to glance her way, a smile tugging at her lips every time. They go on like that, trading little smiles across the room. Rachel doesn't really know what, or why. Whatever it is, she could do it all day, easy.

At one point Quinn disappears from behind the counter, then, in a blink, reappears by the arm of Rachel's chair, now wearing her coat.

Rachel looks up at her in surprise. "You're leaving?"

Quinn nods. "Claude wants to work a double, so I'm off early."

"Oh. Well, that's nice." Or not. She's honestly quite comfortable and hadn't planned on leaving anytime soon.

Quinn points to the empty mug in Rachel's hands. "Finished?"

Rachel nods.

Quinn takes the mug, carries it off to some some magical place behind the counter. She then returns to Rachel's side, pausing to direct an _I'm off the clock now_ glare at a customer that tries approaching her with a complaint.

"So," Quinn says.

Rachel looks up at her, brows raised. So what?

"Do you have anywhere you need to be?"

Rachel smiles and shakes her head.

"Good. I didn't think so."

Rachel frowns, only feigning offense. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Quinn's lips quirk slightly. "Nothing. Come with me."

"And where might we be going?" Rachel asks, getting to her feet.

Quinn shrugs, her voice full of infinite possibilities as she answers, "Nowhere."

It sounds alright to Rachel.

* * *

She follows Quinn to a building on West 10th. It's a long walk but she doesn't mind, and doesn't ask once where they're going. Once inside, an elevator takes them to the eleventh floor. Tacky, outdated carpeting precedes them down a dimly-lit hall until they're standing in front of apartment 4-B.

Rachel watches in silence as Quinn fumbles with the lock, the door behaving as if it's never been opened before. Quinn finally has no choice but to put her whole body into it, cursing under her breath as she punches the door inward with a strong shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, concerned.

"Yeah," Quinn huffs, chest heaving from having just broken into her own apartment. "It's just standard operating procedure."

Rachel offers her a sympathetic smile as she steps through the doorway. The space is surprisingly larger than she'd expected. It's a modest studio, with a kitchenette in one corner and a couch in the other. The countless books and art supplies scattering the floor look almost strategically placed, as if Quinn knows the precise area of the room she's likely to find herself in when inspired to read _that_ passage from _that_ book, or to paint a particular kind of picture.

The place brings a smile to Rachel's lips. She's just happy to see Quinn's carved out a little home for herself.

"This is lovely, Quinn. Very cozy."

"Thanks. Would you like to sit down?"

"Yes, I'd love to," Rachel says, smiling graciously. She's halfway to the couch when Quinn stops her.

"Wait, let me take your coat," Quinn says.

"Oh. Sure, thank you," Rachel says, feeling a sense of deja-vu, although the roles are now reversed. She undoes her buttons, shrugs out of her coat, and hands it to Quinn. The transaction is much smoother this time, no stepping on toes like in an awkward Prom dance. She winces at the memory.

Rachel's already seated somewhat stiffly on the couch when Quinn joins her. They're both facing forward, an entire couch cushion of space between them. Rachel clears her throat, the silence sitting heavily upon her shoulders as she grapples for something to say.

"Your lights are nice," she comments on the strand of multi-colored Christmas lights adorning the opposite window.

"Thanks," Quinn says.

Silence. Rachel fidgets in her seat, coughs pointlessly, then pivots to the side so that her gaze is fixed on Quinn's profile. She's unabashedly staring—not creepy, just hoping Quinn will mimic the action.

It takes a few seconds but Quinn does eventually shift her body to the right, positioning herself so that they're facing one another. There's still an ocean of a couch cushion between them, both remaining on opposite ends as if fearing the tide could pull them under. The Christmas lights tint the room a deep magenta shade and cast weird shadows along the walls. Although they're sharing the same piece of furniture, Rachel sees parts of Quinn hiding in those shadows. She squints through the dim light, trying to find her.

It's the strangest thing; almost like a slumber party vibe that they're in. Rachel really shouldn't know the feeling—she never got invited to many of those as a child, but she still imagines she and Quinn are awake when they ought to be sleeping, shining flashlights under blankets when it ought to be lights out, darkness. She suddenly feels the need to be very, very quiet.

"Hi," Rachel whispers.

"Hi," Quinn whispers back.

"I'm sorry I thought you were homeless."

Quinn looks at her deadpan, then cracks up laughing. "Rachel," she says through a chuckle, "That is not what I thought you were going to say."

"What were expecting?"

Quinn shakes her head. "I don't know, just...not that. And it's fine. I wasn't offended the first time you said it. It was kind of funny, actually."

"Well, that makes it no less embarrassing on my part," Rachel says. "And you should know that my vision of homelessness in New York is an event you'd probably need to audition for. It's ludicrously romantic, with elaborate set design and musical numbers. Also dancing."

Quinn falls silent, ducking into one of the oddly shaped shadows before reappearing again. "I was homeless once," she says thoughtfully. "It could've used more dancing."

Rachel's stomach drops. What on earth is the matter with her? How could she be so—so utterly _herself_ as to take a harrowing aspect of Quinn's past and inject it into glamorized musical theater context? Mortified, she scrambles to apologize. "Quinn, I'm so—"

She's silenced by Quinn's finger pressed softly, but insistently to her lips. Her breath hitches.

"Can you do something for me?" Quinn asks, voice low and direct.

Rachel nods, slightly transfixed.

"Can you please stop apologizing?"

Rachel almost says she's sorry. Instead she says nothing, just nods her head in silence as her eyes hold tightly to Quinn's.

Satisfied, Quinn takes her finger away.

Rachel needs a moment to recover from...from whatever _that_ just was. When she finally collects herself, she feels as though the energy between them has shifted, if ever so slightly. "So now that I'm done apologizing, why don't you tell me what you'd like me to say instead?"

Quinn shrugs. "Say anything."

"As long as I'm not sorry?"

"Correct."

Rachel exhales in contemplation. There's a lot of things she _could_ say, but when put on the spot, her head is as empty as if she'd flipped it upside-down and dumped its entire contents. She shakes her head hopelessly. "Well, now I can't think of anything."

They share an easy chuckle as Rachel moves in a bit closer, narrowing the gap between them.

Quinn, too, settles in for a more heart to heart conversation, draping an arm over the back of the couch as she draws a knee up to her chest. "So," she begins, "you live with now Kurt, huh?"

"I do."

"How is it?"

"It's fun. We still bicker constantly, but I think we've learned to do it in a theatrical way that feels more like an acting exercise for us both. It's oddly productive, if you can believe that."

"I can," Quinn says. A pause, and then, "So it's just the two of you then? You and Kurt, I mean?"

Rachel nods. "At the moment, yes."

Quinn stiffens ever so slightly, her gaze falling away from Rachel's as she begins pulling at a loose thread on her sweater. "So, was it—" she clears her throat "—was it Blaine that used to live with you guys?"

Rachel's brow furrows and Quinn is quick to clarify. "Because I knew that he and Kurt had broken up at some point, so I just thought maybe—"

"Oh!" Rachel says, catching Quinn's drift. "Oh no, Blaine never lived with us. He visited occasionally when they were still trying to work things out, but it was never a long-term thing. When I said it was just Kurt and I 'at the moment' I should've clarified that _Santana_ actually lived with us for a period of time."

A weight appears to lift from Quinn's shoulders. "Oh," she says, voice lighter than a moment ago.

Rachel raises her eyebrows in disbelief. "Really? You're not surprised?"

"Well, I guess I'm surprised you lived to tell about it."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "It wasn't actually as bad as you'd think. The real tipping point was when she decided she was going to teach Strip Aerobics and use our living room for a studio. Kurt and I vetoed the idea, and she moved out shortly after."

Quinn nods. "Hm. Yeah, that tends to be a roommate deal breaker."

"What, strippers in the living room? Yeah, pretty much. Although I think Kurt would've been slightly more negotiable had her clientele included more men."

Both chuckle again, light and easy, before falling into silence. Rachel shifts a little on the couch. There's still an ocean of space between them, but she considers dipping her toes in, possibly wading in up to her ankles if the blonde seems receptive to it. The seconds roll by as she considers her next move. Quinn has already thrown a fair amount of questions her way—not that she minds, but she thinks it might be alright if she just, perhaps, pulls at one of the loose threads of Quinn's sweater. It isn't that she's wanting to lay Quinn bare, or even make the tiniest hole; she's not _actually_ pulling at anything, not really. It's a metaphor, is what it is, and not a very good one.

And yet, part of her questions whether they could've possibly made it this far—to Quinn's apartment, sitting close on the couch, talking in low voices as if whispering secrets in the dark—if Quinn didn't perhaps _wish _to be laid bare, and by Rachel in particular.

She smiles, struck by her own eagerness to know more about the girl sitting opposite her. It's a feeling so familiar, she can't help but relax into it. She moves in closer, her hand reaching out to find Quinn's. She finds it easily, or maybe it's Quinn's hand that finds hers first; it's hard to tell in the dim light of the room, but whatever the case, they meet up somewhere in the middle, the contact sending a jolt through Rachel's entire body, probably causing an electrical shortage somewhere in the near vicinity. She knows Quinn feels it too. It might be the first of only a handful of things she's felt all year, but it's real. It's something.

It's on the tip of Rachel's tongue to ask, how did they get here? From the halls of McKinley to holding hands in New York? And in what feels like the blink of an eye? There's got to be more to the story, a whole novel's worth. Rachel wants to hear it, to read it front to back, knowing full well that to read Quinn Fabray like a book is to _read between the lines_.

She strokes Quinn's hand, and swears she feels goosebumps break out across the delicate skin. Quinn leans in closer. Rachel does the same.

And then a knock at the door nearly puts them both through the ceiling.

"Jesus Christ," Rachel gasps. You'd think a bomb had just gone off, wrenching them apart and flinging them to opposite ends of the couch.

Quinn looks equally startled, her wide eyes darting between Rachel and the door. Had somebody called the police on them? It sure feels that way as Quinn rises clumsily to her feet. She lingers for a moment, staring down at Rachel. "I...sorry," she mutters, then moves to answer the door.

Rachel flops back against the couch, heart hammering. It feels like half her internal organs are in her throat. She's a little out of sorts, can barely tell her nose from her toes as she plays the past few minutes over in her mind.

Did something just..._happen?_ Between she and Quinn, that is. It had certainly felt like something—a whole lot of it, actually.

But as her breathing evens out, she concludes that any "happenings" whatsoever had been purely imagined on her part.

That conclusion cements itself when a male voice cuts across the room. "Quinn, my love!"

Rachel drags her gaze warily toward the open door.

A familiar gentleman breezes into the apartment and sweeps Quinn into his arms as if he's just returned home from war. Rachel recognizes him as Claude from the coffee shop. Jealousy storms her insides, although she can't figure why. It's only natural for Quinn to have made a few friends since moving to the city. She's been getting along just fine, if her coziness with Claude is any indication.

And here Rachel had thought...well, never mind what she'd thought.

Quinn wriggles herself free from Claude's embrace—it's unclear how comfortable she'd been inside of it—then turns to face Rachel. "Um, Rachel, this is—"

"Claude," Rachel supplies, forcing a smile as she stands from the couch.

Claude points a finger at her as if about to accuse her of something. "Hey, I know you—you're Tall Chai Tea girl. Except you're really short."

"That's a perfectly accurate description," Rachel agrees, hating this guy a lot. She feels Quinn's eyes on her as she moves to retrieve her coat from the hook by the door. The blonde says nothing, but Rachel imagines she too is a little out of sorts, confused by what just...didn't happen.

She makes the mistake of glancing up briefly, and catches Quinn watching her with sad eyes, her mouth slightly agape as if poised to stop her from leaving. Rachel doesn't mean to run off like this, but can't really be expected to hang around making chit-chat with Claude, a guy who calls people by their coffee orders.

So she averts Quinn's heavy gaze, thrusting her arms inside her coat and then doing up the buttons. Secretly, she's daring Quinn to shoo her gentleman friend out the door so they can resume getting cozy on the couch.

Quinn doesn't immediately throw the guy out by his hair, although Rachel hears her muttering something along the lines of, "I didn't think you were coming over until later…"

"It's fine, Quinn," Rachel says, looking her pointedly in the eye. "I actually have plans to meet someone as well. I'd really hate to keep them waiting."

She didn't mean for that to sound half as spiteful as it did. Just a _dash_ of spite would have sufficed, but no, she had to go and over-season things, the words burning the tip of her tongue.

Quinn feels the burn as well, her expression clouding over before Rachel can do a thing about it. "Fine," she says coolly, folding her arms across her chest. "Thanks for stopping by."

"Thank you for having me."

Quinn looks back at her, features smoothed over in indifference. It's subtle, but Rachel spots a crack in the blonde's hardened facade, like light peeking through a closed curtain. There's no going back now, though. Rachel couldn't turn them around if she tried.

After a moment of charged silence, Quinn tilts her head toward the open door. "So, you were leaving?"

Rachel presses her lips together and nods. "I was," she says. She tears her eyes from Quinn's, smiles stiffly at Claude, then exits the apartment.

There couldn't possibly be tears in her eyes as the elevator plummets to the ground floor. Just to be sure, she wipes frantically at her cheeks, reining in her emotions before they're raining down her face.

She squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath. She's fine. Why wouldn't she be?

The elevator dings, the doors part, and out steps a calm, composed, and perfectly right-minded Rachel Berry.

The facade is being held together with Scotch tape, on the verge of crumbling at the slightest provocation.

She's halfway to the bus stop when the sound of her own name reaches her ears. Slowing her hurried strides, she turns and looks back toward what is either a crazed fan or a person gasping for their last dying breath, or both.

"Ra...Rachel…"

It's safe to say Quinn hasn't broken into a full-on sprint since her last Cheerios practice. She gives it all she has, but her lungs finally fail her when she's a few steps from Rachel. She heaves an exhausted sigh, then doubles over into a coughing fit.

It's a rather pitiful sight. _Serves you right_, Rachel thinks, despite wishing she could throw a blanket over the poor girl who didn't even bother to put on her coat.

She folds her arms across her chest and sighs. "You shouldn't smoke, Quinn."

"I'm not," Quinn says through a cough.

"But you do."

"I know." She coughs again. "I'm sorry."

"Well, it isn't _me_ to whom you should direct your apology. I do not breathe for you, Quinn. I am not your poor blackened lungs."

"I know that."

"Well, that's...yes. Right," Rachel says, not letting on that she's completely lost sight of her point, if she even had one to begin with. "But by all means, do as you wish. It's not like I care one way or the other."

"I know that, too," Quinn agrees.

"I'm just _concerned_, okay?" Rachel shrieks, arms flailing, breath sputtering out of her in ragged puffs like the little engine that really honestly could not.

Quinn gapes back at her. "Wait, what? What are you concerned about?"

"About you!"

"But I thought you didn't—"

"I don't."

"Then why are you—"

"I don't know! I don't know. But it's fine. _It's_ _fine_. Honestly, I just…" she breaks off with a sigh. "I just wish you would've remembered to put on a coat, is all."

Quinn stares at her, eyebrows raised as if waiting on the rest of the story. "That's it?" she asks.

Rachel nods shortly. "That is it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That's the only reason you're mad?"

"I'm not mad," Rachel insists.

"Yeah, c-c-clearly," Quinn stutters, trying to keep her teeth from chattering as she wraps her arms around herself.

_My point exactly_, Rachel thinks, although that isn't really it at all. "Well. Anyway, I should get going. You should probably get—"

"Look, the guy," Quinn speaks up suddenly, "the guy who showed up at my apartment just now—Claude is his name. He's just a friend. We're co-workers, actually, and we...we have a lot in common, I guess. Sort of. Anyway, he comes over once a week, to discuss poetry and stuff. That's all."

Rachel tries to appear unmoved, bored even, by this new piece of insight. It's none of her concern, anyway, what the nature of Quinn and Claude's relationship is, or isn't. _Poetry and stuff_ sounds to her like _Netflix and chill_, cool hipster style, but that couldn't possibly be any of her business, now could it?

"That's lovely, Quinn. Thank you for enlightening me with those details. It sounds like you've been in good company since moving to the Big Apple, which I'm pleased to hear."

She trails off, knowing she should put the brakes on before going where she's about to go. Against her better instincts, she steps on the gas and forges full speed ahead; she's already too far gone anyhow. "Although..." she begins, "I do wish you would've thought to seek me out at least once in all these months you've lived in the city. Surely it couldn't have escaped your mind that I was merely a short train ride away."

"It's _New York_, Rachel, not small town Ohio," Quinn says, irritation creeping into her tone. "People don't just bump into each other at the supermarket the way they do in Lima.

"I know that."

"Do you, really?" Quinn presses.

"Yes, of course really."

"Because if you ask me, you sound more like a tourist without a map."

Rachel's jaw unhinges. Quinn did _not_ just liken her to the lowest form of human life: a slow-walking, souvenir-purchasing, _country comin' to town_ visitor from the midwest.

And yet...Quinn just did do exactly that, didn't she? She _would_ do that, naturally, because she's Quinn Fabray!

Despite her indignation, Rachel's secretly glad to have sparked a little fire within the girl. In fact, she thinks she might like to curl up right beside that fire and use it to get warm. But she doesn't let Quinn know that.

After picking her jaw up off the sidewalk, she adjusts herself slightly, then meets Quinn's challenging gaze. "Well, considering your apartment is within walking distance of NYADA, I'd say it's _you_ who has yet to learn your way around the city."

"I don't go to NYADA, Rachel."

"Yes, I'm aware of that as well, Quinn. But I think you understand what I'm getting at." She huffs and shakes her head. "I mean, for God's sake, even _Santana_ thought to look me up when she came to the city."

"That's because she needed a place to crash and piggyback off of you and Kurt while she dealt with her own crap. I don't need anything from you, Rachel. I wasn't going to just call you up out of the blue and ask for a favor."

"But you didn't call me at all!" Rachel argues.

"Well you didn't call me either!"

"Because I didn't know you were here!"

"Well, it's not like I didn't exist when I was at Yale!" Quinn shoots back. "I did exist, as a matter of fact, but you didn't seem too terribly interested back then, did you?"

This time, Rachel's indignation practically tattoos itself all over her face. Hopefully it's the stick-on kind that she can wash off later—because this isn't a good look for her. "Well, if my memory serves me, and it usually does, I distinctly recall sending a long string of emails to a certain Yale University address, all of which went unanswered."

Quinn shifts a little on her feet. "Yeah, but...those were just the generic group emails. You sent those out to everybody in the Glee Club, trying to get us all to stay in touch after graduation."

"Ah, so you _did_ receive them," Rachel says.

"Well...yeah."

"And yet you chose not to respond."

"_No one_ responded to those stupid emails, Rachel," Quinn snaps.

Rachel deflates instantly. A twinge of hurt gets her right in the chest, the kind she hasn't felt for quite some time. She used to hurt like this every day, but now that she's out of practice she hardly knows what to do with it. So she sort of just...wears it. On her face. Like yet another tattoo of emotions she can't take off easily.

Rachel's wounded expression fills Quinn with immediate regret. She wishes the cold air would just go ahead and frostbite her already, particularly in the tongue and mouth region. Anything to keep her from hurling another harsh word at the fragile brunette.

"Rachel, I...I didn't mean—"

"I know," Rachel says. "I know. I'm gonna just—I mean I have to—really do have to go now."

Quinn looks as if she wants to apologize, but instead nods her head affirmatively. "Okay. Okay yeah, you should probably get inside."

Rachel frowns. Really? The girl in the threadbare sweater is telling _her_ to get inside? The girl who can barely enunciate her words through her own chattering teeth? Granted, their heated exchange has kept them both significantly warmer than they might've been otherwise. "And I think _you_, Quinn, should get inside as well, if only to keep your long delicate fingers from falling off," Rachel says.

A flicker of intrigue crosses Quinn's features, Rachel's tone and choice of words rekindling a flame that had nearly died out moments ago. She steps in closer. "And you definitely don't want to continue subjecting your vocal cords to this kind of weather."

On instinct, Rachel's hand flies to her throat. Seeing Quinn's smirk, she tries to make out like she's merely scratching an itch, adjusting the scarf that she of course remembered to tie protectively around her ever vulnerable throat. "My vocal cords will be just fine," she says, dropping her voice to a paranoid whisper.

"I'm sure they will," Quinn says, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Rachel nods. "Okay then. Okay. So I'm gonna just—I'm gonna go now. Goodnight, Quinn."

With that, she pivots away from the blonde, stiff as a mannequin.

"Rachel, wait."

She spins back around. "Yes, Quinn?"

"Go out with me tomorrow night?"

You could've knocked Rachel over with a feather. Fireworks explode her insides. She wants to leap with joy and then run, shrieking, up and down the city streets. From the outside looking in, however, she appears completely unmoved, possibly even a little deaf. Is this how Quinn feels ninety-eight percent of the time? If so, Rachel finally gets it.

After staring blankly for moments on end, the best she can come up with is, "Sorry, what?"

"Go out with me," Quinn repeats.

"Go...out?"

"Yeah. I mean we technically already are out, so...I guess go 'in' with me?"

A car wreck takes place just to the left of them. Tires screech, horns blare, F-words abound; and neither girl flinches in the slightest.

"That sounds perfectly alright to me, Quinn," Rachel says, finding her words again. "But I have one condition…"

"Wh-wh-what's that?" Quinn asks, teeth chattering against her will.

Rachel unties the soft woolen scarf from her neck, steps forward, and loops it around Quinn's.

Quinn resists stubbornly at first, but a smile has its way with her. Her whole face lights up, similar to when she'd locked eyes with Rachel across the crowded coffee shop that afternoon. "Thank you," she says shyly.

"You're very welcome," Rachel says, adjusting the scarf around the girl's neck. She moves in closer. "I want you to wear this home. And I want you to promise to put on a coat before we go out tomorrow night."

Quinn nods. "I promise. Although in my defense, you left abruptly and I had to chase after you."

Rachel's heart flutters at the words _had to_. She steadies herself, then asks, "Okay, so I'll call you?"

"I'll call _you_," Quinn says.

And she does, later that same evening. Rachel hadn't even thought to ask whether Quinn still had her number. They'd texted a few times since graduation, mostly in group threads inclusive of the entire Glee Club gang; much like her emails, Rachel's long, detailed messages received disproportionate responses from the others—two whole words if she was lucky—or went ignored altogether.

That was early in her NYADA freshman year, when the scariness of the real world loomed large, creating the smoke and mirrors illusion that she actually missed Lima. It didn't last long, and after an ill-advised trip to see the McKinley production of _Grease_, she officially learned the meaning of the phrase "you can't go home again."

Which isn't to say she doesn't miss certain parts of her past; but being a semi-adult, untethered from the names, places, faces she'd been unwittingly assigned to as a child has earned her the right to be more selective as she browses life's menu. To choose her own adventure, so to speak.

And without a doubt, she'd choose _this_ particular adventure every time.

Still, Rachel must admit she does wonder whether Quinn would have ever thought to contact her again, had she not, by pure chance, stumbled into the Rising Star coffee shop on a lonely Thanksgiving evening.

She can't possibly know for certain, what anyone would or would not have done, and when her phone buzzes with a text from Quinn saying she'll pick her up at seven tomorrow night, Rachel concludes that yes, Quinn still has her number, and that maybe, just maybe, she'd hoped that Rachel would one day come in from the cold, in search of a hot cup of coffee.

Or tea. Whatever.


	3. It's Not A Date

_It's Not A Date_

Rachel hasn't been out on a—well, not that it's a _date_, but she hasn't been out with a person who is not Kurt since "the thing" with Brody ceased being a thing altogether.

So she's a bit nervous as she fixes her dress in the mirror. It's good nervous. School dance nervous. Except...not really like that at all. She's struggling for an appropriate metaphor, mainly because she doesn't _actually_ know this feeling fluttering in her stomach. She's going out with Quinn—_not that it's a date_, but it's certainly uncharted territory.

Kurt gives her a look when she informs him of her plans for the evening. He raises one eyebrow, prompting Rachel to furrow both of hers. Then he tells her, in the bluntest of terms, that she really ought to _tweeze_ her eyebrows before going out with Quinn Fabray.

"It's not a date, Kurt," Rachel insists for the upteenth time.

"Didn't you say she's picking you up?" Kurt asks.

"Yes, as a courtesy, and to economize on cab fare."

"My, how considerate of her."

"Why, yes, I thought so as well."

Kurt stares for at her for a moment, then shrugs. "Well, two is always better than one."

"Indeed. I'm glad we agree."

"I was talking about your eyebrows!" Kurt calls over his shoulder.

Rachel scoffs. What an insufferable drama queen she has for a roommate slash best friend. Nevertheless, she elects to spend a little quality time with her tweezers and the bathroom mirror. It's merely to placate Kurt's insanity; not because she deems it necessary to spend hours primping for what is so _not _a date with an old friend.

She's just glad Kurt won't be around to give her any "looks" when Quinn arrives at seven. He and Adam already flitted off on their own date an hour ago.

Not that it's a...well, if it's not a date, then what is it?

She's still stumped for answer when a knock rattles the front door. She takes a deep breath and gives herself a once-over in the mirror; paranoia strikes, and she wonders, is it possible that she's actually overdressed? It's her favorite black mini dress, highly appropriate for grabbing dinner with a friend, but given Quinn's current aesthetic, Rachel wonders if there aren't perhaps a few too many sparkly things adorning her ensemble.

Another knock at the door. Well, there's no grunge-ing it up now, Rachel figures, then hurries out into the living room before Quinn thinks no one's home.

With an involuntary grunt she heaves the door aside, revealing...Quinn?

It isn't that she doesn't recognize the girl standing outside her door. The girl is Quinn; Rachel would know her anywhere because she looks...stunning. Which is to say, of course, that she looks stunningly like herself. A day ago, however, Rachel wouldn't have guessed that Quinn still had fancy dresses hanging in her closet, right next to her Kurt Cobain sweaters and oversized coats. In fact, the only thing resembling yesterday's Quinn is the scarf around her neck; _Rachel's_ scarf, that is, not that she wants it back by any means. It looks better on Quinn anyway, and her heart swells at the sight of it looped neatly around the girl's pale neck.

She swallows thickly and meets Quinn's hazel gaze. "Good evening," Rachel says.

"Hi," Quinn replies, voice a bit shy. "Am I late?"

Rachel shakes her head, smiling. "No, you're right on time."

"Good. I, um, made reservations, actually."

Rachel's brows lift in surprise. "Oh? Well, we'd better get a move on then."

Quinn nods. "Yeah. But first you should probably grab your coat."

Rachel pouts, indignant. As if _that_ wouldn't have occurred to her! As if she, of all people, would venture out into subfreezing temperatures, bare-shouldered, throat exposed, vocal cords vulnerable to the...oh, but then she catches those hazel eyes sparkling with righteous amusement. She drops her defenses. _Okay Fabray_, she thinks, nodding agreeably as she goes to fetch her coat from the closet. Whatever little game this is, she's more than happy to play it.

"Ready?" Rachel asks once she's fastened up her buttons.

Quinn smiles. "Yes."

* * *

Giovonni's is an Italian restaurant near the theater district. Rachel can't say she's entirely familiar with the area. In spirit, yes, but physically? Financially? No, and no. It's an upscale establishment, no doubt, with white tablecloths and low lighting and a baby grand piano at the front of the room.

Rachel's first thought is that Rising Star must pay extremely well if this is Quinn's go-to spot for catching up with old friends. Her second thought, after a quick scan of the menu, is that she'll be ordering the _side salad_, to place alongside her glass of water.

As if reading Rachel's thoughts, Quinn says, "Don't worry, this is on me."

"What?" Rachel asks, flicking her eyes up to Quinn's. "Oh, don't be silly, Quinn, please. These food and drink items are well within my budget. I come here all the time, actually! In fact, I was just thinking I'd order the, um…"

She trails off, wondering if it'll be alright if she just orders the basket of bread that the waiter has already brought to their table.

"Rachel," Quinn begins, looking at her pointedly, "I wanted to thank you again for inviting me to your place Thursday night."

"Quinn, there's absolutely no need—"

"I know," Quinn says, raising a hand to stop Rachel's words. "I know you don't need a thank you. You've _never_ needed that, ever. But I wanted to thank you anyway, for being so warm and welcoming. I mean we've hardly spoken since high school, and yet you didn't hesitate to open your doors to me like...like I was your friend or something."

Rachel looks at her in confusion. "But Quinn, you are my friend."

Quinn smiles softly. "I know. And I know we left high school on fairly good terms...but we weren't _friends_ back then, Rachel. I think we both know that."

It's with some reluctance that Rachel cleans the dust off an old box of memories labeled _All the Friends I Had in High School_. It's a lightweight box, sometimes an empty one, depending on the year. She digs and she digs, through emptiness upon emptiness, but finds Quinn nowhere inside. At least not until the very end, when graduation loomed near and nothing mattered enough to bother adhering to standard social laws, the ones that made must-be enemies out of could've-been friends.

Rachel's not upset about it. In truth, she's never been a hoarder of past grievances. Which isn't to say she forgives easily—she doesn't, but, like always, she prefers to just sing, just belt it out and use it. _Own it_, and then be done, at least until the next performance. Far more productive than carrying a chip on her shoulder.

"Well," Rachel says after pause. "You are indeed welcome for whatever you feel it necessary to express your gratitude for." She glances around, still overwhelmed by the extravagance of the place. "But really, Quinn, this is a bit excessive...don't you think?"

"No," Quinn says casually as she signals to the waiter. "I mean if it wasn't for you, I would've spent Thanksgiving all by myself."

"Exactly!" Rachel argues. "It was _Thanksgiving_, for God's sake. What was I going to do, leave you alone in a deserted coffee shop on the most communal holiday of the year?"

"No," Quinn says, shaking her head. "You weren't going to do that. And that's my point."

Rachel doesn't see how _that_ point could have pointed Quinn anywhere in the vicinity of this lavish Italian restaurant. Before she can plead her case any further, a waiter sidles up to their table.

"Can I get you two ladies anything to drink?" he asks.

"Yes," Quinn answers, looking him straight in the eye. "We'll take a bottle of Penfolds Bin 311 Chardonnay, preferably one that's been chilled at a minimum of fifty degrees for at least one hour, if you can swing it. And we'd like the glasses chilled as well, please. Thank you. That will be all for now."

Rachel stares at Quinn in awe. God, that was smooth. Even the waiter appears mildly aroused by a drink order recited with such unflinching precision. He doesn't even bother asking for any age verification, just promises to be back in a flash and then snaps to it.

"Well, that was impressive," Rachel says.

"What was?" Quinn asks.

"Well, _you_, ordering a bottle of wine just now. You sounded like you knew what you were doing."

Quinn waves it off. "I spent years being a bored kid in country clubs. My parents and their friends drank booze like it was water. I knew everyone's cocktail order better than I knew their first names. I probably could've been a bartender at the age of eight."

Rachel's heart aches. Despite Quinn recounting the story as if it's a funny little anecdote from her past, Rachel can't bring herself to laugh at any of it.

It's either awful or excellent timing that their bottle of wine arrives at that moment. The waiter pours each of them a hearty glass, promising to return in a few minutes to get their food orders, then excuses himself.

Quinn raises her glass, smiling across the table at Rachel. "Cheers," she says good-naturedly, moving on from her trip down memory lane as if she'd simply passed through a bad neighborhood on her way to greener pastures.

"Cheers," Rachel echoes, a little weak on her end.

Silence falls over the table as glasses and heads are tipped back. Rachel doesn't hesitate to take a few undignified gulps of the strong Chardonnay. Quinn does the same, holding Rachel's gaze while holding her glass up to her face.

Both are visibly more satiated and relaxed by the time the waiter returns. Quinn orders something to do with clam sauce, and Rachel orders the side salad, on the side of the vegan gnocchi. Quinn told her to get absolutely anything she wanted, no matter the price.

Rachel has some questions about that. And now, with a glass and a half of wine in her system, she feels bold enough to ask.

"So, should I call you my Sugar Daddy?"

Quinn nearly chokes on her wine. "What?" she asks, coughing.

Rachel smirks. "Well, you have to admit, you're being rather inexplicably lavish with your time and money. If I didn't know better, I might suspect your family of having Mafia ties."

When Quinn gives no immediate response, Rachel's expression turns from playful to paranoid. "Oh God," she murmurs, eyes darting left and right. "Is...is that true? Does your family really—"

"Rachel," Quinn says abruptly. "No, that's not—my family isn't—" she breaks off, sighing.

"Sorry," Rachel says, a little embarrassed. "I was only kidding...kind of"

"It's fine. The fact that you're jumping to these insane conclusions means I that should probably explain a few things."

"You don't have to discuss your private affairs with me, Quinn," Rachel says, despite being so on the edge of her seat that she risks falling right off of it. "But if you do want to discuss anything, I'm all ears. And nose."

Quinn chuckles lightly, then makes a series of gestures hinting at her readiness to speak the truth. She sits up straighter in her seat, folds and unfolds her napkin, takes a drink, then clears her throat. "I mean it's not like it's a dirty secret or anything," she begins. "About a year ago I discovered that my Aunt Alice had set up a trust fund for my sister and I before she died. I never knew about it because, naturally, my parents never told me. My mother claims she had no knowledge of the trust ever existing, but I suspect she's lying through her teeth. Anyway, my sister caught wind of the situation and her husband threatened to sue my father if he didn't release the funds to their intended beneficiaries. My father eventually caved, and I suddenly found myself with a surplus of cash I never bargained for. Even better, my Aunt didn't put any stipulations on how or when the money was to be spent." A pause as she wrings her napkin nervously in her hands. "So basically, what I'm saying is…"

"You're loaded?" Rachel supplies.

"Sort of," Quinn chuckles. "It's not a king's ransom by any means, and I'm trying to be smart about it—invest a good percentage, and then live off the interest."

"Smart," Rachel agrees. "And you have your job at Rising Star, of course."

"Yeah, that," Quinn says with some disdain. "I found that job shortly after I moved to the city. It's not exactly my dream career, but the hours aren't bad and I can read if there's downtime. Plus, I wouldn't feel right about squandering my Aunt's money on cheap food and cigarettes."

Rachel frowns at the cigarettes part. She lets it pass, though. No need to ruin the vibe with a friendly reminder that _SMOKING KILLS__!_ For now, with the wine flowing freely and Quinn in obvious sharing mode, she's inclined to poke around a bit on other subjects. After scooting to the utmost edge of her seat, she asks, "So, you moved to the city six months ago, is that right?"

"Right."

Rachel nods. "So—and this is just an assumption—but it would seem that you found the Yale collegiate experience to be rather, shall we say, unsatisfactory?"

Quinn shakes her head. "No, Yale was fine."

"But...you left."

"I did. But I wasn't unsatisfied, exactly. Yale had plenty to offer and I learned a great deal while I was there. A few of the people I met helped me to...well, _see the light_ on a couple of things." She looks at Rachel and smiles. "Honestly, I have no regrets."

Rachel stares at her, eyes narrowed in confusion. Nothing makes sense, and Quinn can't possibly do _this_ again: drag everything to the "I Don't Wanna Talk About It" pile and move on.

And yet, Quinn very well _can_ do that, can't she? She basically just _did_.

Rachel needs more wine.

"So why did you leave?" Rachel asks after a beat. "If you, if you don't mind my asking..."

Quinn has a look about her like she might mind just a little. Her gaze falls away from Rachel's as she takes another sip of wine. "Did you ever find yourself lost?" she asks, meeting Rachel's eyes again.

"Yes," Rachel answers. "A month ago I attended a student production of _Jane Austen in Space_. The first act was so convoluted I could hardly follow it, and by the second act I was completely…oh. Oh wait, you meant that cryptically, didn't you?"

Quinn nods. "For the most part, yeah."

"Right," Rachel says, rethinking her answer. "Okay...okay, then yes, I have indeed found myself lost, so to speak." She chuckles to herself. "To be honest, my relationship with Finn is the first thing that comes to mind."

Quinn's lips quirk in response, something like relief, possibly even a glimmer of hope settling over her as she gazes thoughtfully at Rachel.

Rachel blushes under Quinn's persistent stare. "What?" she asks.

Quinn stirs from her daze, shaking her head. "Nothing. I'm just...glad we're on the same page."

Maybe it's the wine, but Rachel can't help but grin coyly at the blonde, her eyelashes fluttering. "Of what book?" she asks.

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"You say we're on the same page. I'm asking what page, of what book? You see, I need to know these things."

Quinn smirks at her, then takes yet another sip of wine, holding the glass close to her lips as she ponders Rachel's request. She looks as if she's browsing an entire library of literary titles in her mind. "War and Peace," she answers finally.

Rachel frowns. "You've actually read that?"

"No," Quinn admits. "I tried once, but...no."

"No is right. How about something we've both actually read?"

"So...Animal Farm?"

Rachel shudders.

"Sorry," Quinn chuckles. "I know we both had Mrs. Malstrom for English, so."

"God, don't remind me," Rachel says, cringing.

"Mrs. Malstrom wasn't _that_ bad."

Rachel looks aghast. "She gave me a _C minus_, Quinn. Can you believe that? Horrible woman, honestly."

Quinn tries to hide her smirk behind her glass, and Rachel's frown deepens.

"Well," Rachel says. "Perhaps we should end this silly game, and just let a metaphor be a metaphor, yes?"

Quinn shrugs. "Sure. Whatever you want," she says casually, then takes a sip of wine.

Rachel narrows her eyes at the girl, tracking her movements. Quinn lowers her glass to the table, holding Rachel's gaze as well.

They stare each other down for a long, vaguely tense moment.

And then suddenly, out of nowhere, Rachel receives a thought that practically tickles her from the inside out. She can't even begin to contain the giggles that consume her in violent waves.

Quinn just stares at her, completely bemused. "What's so funny?"

Rachel can barely get the words out. "Oh God, I just...I just thought of the...the perfect book title…one we're both on the same page of—it's so perfect!"

Quinn looks intrigued. "Oh yeah? What is it?"

Rachel somehow keeps a straight face long enough to utter the words: "Huckleberry Finn."

Quinn deadpans for only an instant, then throws her head back laughing. Rachel cracks up as well, and now they're both in hysterics. By the time they're able to at least somewhat collect themselves, both have tears streaming down their faces.

"Oh God," Quinn chokes out, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. "That might be the hardest I've laughed all year."

"I think I cracked a rib," Rachel groans. She takes a long drink of water, her other hand holding her aching rib cage. In her weakened state, she fails to notice Quinn eyeing her rather intensely.

"It's a yes, by the way," Quinn says. She says it in an answering tone, as if a question is still hovering in the air.

"Yes what?" Rachel asks.

"Yes, you can call me your Sugar Daddy."

_Oh._

Rachel swallows thickly as a shiver runs down her spine. Their food arrives at that moment.

"Thank God. I'm famished," Quinn says, reaching for her silverware.

Rachel is famished as well, but her food sits untouched, her mouth slightly agape as her eyes track the movements of Quinn's long, skillful fingers unwrapping her silverware from the white cloth napkin.

Meanwhile, Quinn tries to act as if she doesn't feel the weight of Rachel's gaze anchoring her to the floor. In truth, she wants nothing more than to be seen, to deck herself out in bright colors so the brunette can't miss her. Even sitting straight across from the girl, planted in her line of vision, Quinn fears going unseen by the widest, most perceptive pair of eyes she's ever known. Mostly because it's happened before.

Rachel, on her end of the table, doesn't know how to tell the girl sitting opposite her that everything's the same as it was two evenings ago when she'd questioned whether Quinn had so much as a dime in her pocket. She'd been beautiful then, magnificent. Nothing's changed.

With a smile in her eyes, Rachel takes another sip of wine, licks the sweet residue from her lips, then says, "Alright. I'll call you my Sugar Daddy." She gives Quinn a pointed look. "But to be honest, I'd rather call you my friend. Are we friends, Quinn? I'd really like it if we were."

A warm smile spreads Quinn's lips. She nods. "We are."

"Good," Rachel says, smiling from ear to ear. "I certainly am glad to have reconnected with you."

"I'm glad too," Quinn says.

"I know it's been awkward at times, given our tempestuous past, but I think if we continue to embrace the present moment and let bygones be bygones, that we can both begin to—"

"Rachel?" Quinn says, already on her fifth bite of pasta.

"Yes, Quinn?"

"Your food's getting cold."

"Oh. Oh, right, food," Rachel says, picking up her fork. She definitely needs _something_ to counterbalance the half-bottle of wine coursing through her system. "Mmmm," she drawls, relishing her first bite.

"Good?" Quinn asks.

"Oh, God, yeah," Rachel says through a mouthful.

Quinn nods, satisfied. "Good." She smirks playfully, adding, "I'll even let you order dessert, if you're lucky."

Rachel laughs, her stomach swooping. It's probably just the wine having that effect on her. Probably.

Oh, and it's clearly not a date.

_Clearly._


	4. Go for the Gold

_Go for the Gold_

"How was your date last night?" Rachel asks Kurt the following morning. They're both seated at the kitchen table, drinking their usual coffees and reading their usual blogs, on separate iPads.

"Good," Kurt answers. "How was yours?"

Rachel opens her mouth as if to correct him, but snaps it shut without uttering a single word. She brings her mug to her lips and takes a long, drawn-out sip.

Kurt stares at her, eyebrows raised expectantly. Rachel stares back, mug obscuring the bottom half of her face. She lowers it to the table, eyes falling to her iPad; she swipes a finger across the screen. "It was good," she answers, voice light and airy.

This evokes nothing more than a casual "Hm" from Kurt, who takes a sip of his own coffee and resumes his own reading.

* * *

Quinn and Rachel meet up again, later that same afternoon. Quinn had told Rachel not to bother visiting her at work today, while secretly hoping she _would_ bother, and to the very best of her bothering capabilities.

Back in high school, Quinn would have just as soon pulled a muscle in her attempt to appear irritated and overwhelmed by the brunette's abrasive presence.

But Quinn doesn't even try to repress the smile that splits her face when she glances up to find her favorite customer has just breezed in through the doorway.

If Quinn were to see herself seeing Rachel, she might not have the faintest idea just who on earth that deliriously happy blonde girl even was. She might annoy herself, honestly. Who could be _that_ happy while grinding out a boring, busy afternoon at work? Who could be that girl?

It turns out Quinn could be that girl; _is_ that girl anytime she thinks of warm brown eyes throwing a blanket over everything cold and lonely in her world.

God, she wants to hold Rachel so close. _So_ close.

So it's settled: no more Fabray-like suspending of all emotion. She'll lay her heart out for the girl if she has to. She just wants to keep Rachel coming back on her own.

And come back she does. And trade secret winks and smiles across the crowded room do they both, again and again, day after day, for the next week and a half.

Rachel has exams to prep for, and her part-time job at the NYADA Admissions Office keeps her plenty busy. But given the opportunity, Rachel doesn't hesitate to pay Quinn a visit, either at the coffee shop if Quinn is working, or someplace else entirely.

_Someplace else entirely_ is often preferable to Quinn. Rachel, on the other hand, has developed a fondness for settling comfortably into an overstuffed chair, sipping something warm and fragrant as she watches Quinn hustle about behind the counter. She admits, she likes it very much when something goes awry—a high-maintenance customer makes an impossible demand: a quadruple shot, half of this, half of that, none of this, more of that, and then _more_ than more until more is less and Quinn's head is imploding.

Rachel uses her mug of tea to hide her smirk, eyes crinkling with affection for the deep-set frown that scrunches Quinn's features adorably; also _dangerously_. Rachel pities the fool that tests Quinn's patience near the end of a long and hectic day. The last customer that dared to do it has probably already dropped dead from the poison Quinn slipped secretly into their drink. Serves them right, as far as Rachel's concerned.

"Honestly, screw it," Quinn grumbles as they pass under the arched entryway to Central Park. "I mean, we're not Starbucks. We're not even _corporate_, for God's sake. If a person wants the entire Emerald City melted into their latte, they should at least have to pay extra for it. Otherwise we should just—I don't know, tell them we're out of everything. _Everything_. Even water. Even cups."

Rachel doesn't think Quinn ought to bother pitching that idea to her boss. She holds her tongue in silence, however, a smile pulling at her lips as she allows Quinn the space to blow off a little after-work steam.

As the ice rink comes more fully into view, Rachel quickens her pace alongside Quinn, practically skipping the rest of the way.

"Wait for me," Quinn says, chuckling.

"Hurry and catch up!" Rachel chirps over her shoulder.

Twenty minutes later, Rachel is singing a whole different tune. She doubts she could even hold a note for longer than she can keep her balance, which is all of three seconds before she topples forward, arms flailing.

Quinn, on the other hand, skates like she's strolling through Central Park; leisurely, with perfect balance, perfect poise, no problems whatsoever. Oh, did she forget to mention that the country club she'd spent half her childhood at had included an indoor ice rink? She's out of practice, no doubt, but after stepping out on the ice for the first time in years, she finds it's like riding a bike.

"Who's idea was this?" Rachel groans.

"You're doing fine, Rach," Quinn lies, trying not to laugh at the poor girl's position. She's literally bent in half, knees locked, nose to the ice as she makes some strange propeller-like motions with her arms. She looks like she's swimming. Or trying to.

"Why is the ice chipped in so many places?" Rachel asks. She cranes her neck awkwardly, looks up at Quinn with concern. "Could the ice break? Could we fall in? Has that ever happened before?"

Quinn gently pats the girl's horizontal back. "It's fine, Rach. We're fine. Why don't you try standing up straight?"

"I think I'll pass on that, thank you," Rachel says, voice a bit muffled. "The view is just fine from down here."

"Is it, really?" Quinn asks.

"Yes, it is, really."

"You look vain. Like you're trying to see your reflection in the ice."

"I'm a very vain person, Quinn. You should know this about me."

"Well, be that as it may, let's try being vertical for a change, okay? Come on, I'll help you."

With Quinn's help, Rachel eases herself into a semi-upright position. It's not a triple axel by any means, but she's at least eye level with her fellow humans, instead of staring permanently iceward.

"There you go," Quinn says encouragingly.

Rachel pouts. "It feels like I'm going nowhere, at a glacial pace."

"Just relax, Rach. You're doing great."

In truth, Quinn's just trying to keep the wobbly girl from haphazardly drifting toward the center of the rink where all the whiz kids are doing spins and jumps with perfect form. Funnily enough, they're all the sort of kids that _would _be Rachel Berry, if Rachel were in any way adept at ice skating.

They manage to putter along at an uneven pace, Rachel teetering and grumbling, Quinn brisk and unbothered while keeping a close eye on the girl beside her.

"Okay...okay, I think I'm starting to get the hang of this—_WOAH!_" Rachel shrieks as her knees buckle inward. She nearly wipes out and takes an entire family of skaters down with her. Fortunately, Quinn catches her around the waist and pulls her in close.

"Woah there," Quinn says, trying to stay steady on her own two feet as Rachel flops against her. "You okay?"

Rachel looks up, forehead bumping Quinn's nose. Their eyes lock, both breathing heavily, snowflakes falling on their eyelashes as Rachel rests comfortably in the circle of Quinn's arms.

"I'm not very good at this," Rachel admits wearily.

Quinn shakes her head. "No, I'm afraid not."

Rachel eyes Quinn curiously. "How come _you're _so good?"

"I'm not, really," Quinn says, lips quirking. "I'm just not half as awful as you."

Rachel looks vaguely offended, then shrugs, knowing any argument she could make for herself would be as thin as the ice she can barely stand up on. It'll be a Golden Globe for her before it's a Gold Medal. She thinks she can live with that.

Quinn props Rachel upright, hands hovering close to her unbalanced frame.

"Can we be done now?" Rachel asks. She's ready for the part where they sip hot chocolate and watch _other_ people making spastic fools of themselves.

"How 'bout we go around just one more time?" Quinn suggests.

She may as well have suggested they start training for the next Winter Olympics. Rachel looks at her in disbelief. "Quinn, I _can't_. I mean, do you see me? The ice and I are at odds. We don't mix."

"I see you," Quinn says, offering her hand out to Rachel. "And I've got you."

With a shy smile, Rachel places her hand in Quinn's, their fingers intertwining. They go around once more, hand in hand, slowly but surely. Rachel remains vertical for more than half their go-round, which is inspiring. Maybe she'll go for the Gold after all.

They're off the ice now. Skates off, too. Shoes on, coats on. Hands and fingers in gloves, Quinn's hand in Rachel's as they exit the park.

They just forgot to let go, is all.

And neither cares to remember.

* * *

"When does your semester end?" Quinn asks through a mouthful of sugar plum danish.

"The seventeenth," Rachel answers, nose buried in her textbook.

They're having coffee at a place that is not Rising Star, nowhere near it. Rachel is studying, Quinn is reading. Quinn _does not_ work here. It's her day off anyway, and yet she still expects a line of customers to start forming in front her at any moment.

"So, are you…" Quinn begins, taking another paranoid glance around the room before continuing. "I mean you're still going home for the holidays...correct?"

"Uh huh," Rachel mutters.

Quinn eyes her curiously. "Is something wrong?"

"Nope," Rachel says, eyes fastened to her textbook.

"Rach, come on. What is it?"

"It's nothing."

"_Rachel_."

Silence, until Rachel finally puts down her hot pink highlighter, closes her book, then lifts her eyes to Quinn's. "It's my Dads," she admits. "They were initially going to pay for my plane ticket home, but since I've declared these to be the 'Doing It On My Own' chapters of my future memoir, they thought it might be a fun teaching moment if I paid my own way home this holiday season."

"Hm," Quinn says, looking thoughtful. "You know, you might want to think about just omitting that chapter altogether."

"I'm seriously considering that, although it's a little late now. The damage is done. Even if I check the couch cushions it's doubtful I'll be able to scrape enough pennies together to afford a plane ticket to Lima. Prices are through the roof this time of year, what with the influx of people traveling for the holidays."

Quinn looks as if she's not quite following. "Why don't you just call your Dads and tell them you're flat broke? I'm sure they'll understand. I mean, do they honestly expect you to come up with that kind of money all by yourself?"

Rachel sighs. "Well, that's the thing. I really _should_ have the money—and I would, if only Kurt and I hadn't blown our combined travel budgets for the year on…" she trails off, looking guilt-ridden.

"What?" Quinn asks.

"_Hamilton_ tickets."

"Oooh," Quinn says, getting the picture now. She sits back in her chair and chuckles lightly. "So I guess even your future children are broke, huh?"

"Basically, yes."

"Was it worth it?"

Rachel considers this for a moment. "Well, it was the original Broadway cast, so…"

Quinn smirks. Rachel Berry could justify robbing a bank with that excuse. "So in other words, you regret nothing?"

Ordinarily, Rachel wouldn't have regretted a thing; but, 'tis the season, and her heart aches at the thought of her Dads carrying on their holiday traditions without her. Sure, she could always call home, explain to them that the whole _Adult-ing_ thing was just a role she'd been rehearsing for, to be portrayed at a much, much later date. She's only doing _certain_ things on her own, you see, and nothing that requires a bank balance. So sorry for the misunderstanding, Dads! It won't happen again.

But of course her Dads would have some questions about that. "What happened to your yearly travel budget?" being the most pressing one, no doubt. And Rachel would have to explain that, well, you see, there was this very important musical that she'd been required (by law) to attend. Yes, that is absolutely a thing now: all New Yorkers are required to see _Hamilton_, preferably with the Original Broadway Cast. And, being the law abiding citizen that she is, she'd thought it necessary to spring for the orchestra seats as well.

_Yikes_. As if her Dads would buy a single word of that tall story. Perhaps if she'd thought to save them each a _Hamilton _Playbill they'd be slightly less appalled by her reckless spending. As it stands, they'll be chewing her ear off from now until Yom Kippur, she just knows it.

She also knows they'll buy her a ticket home anyway. They always will.

She could've made that call weeks ago. She never did, though, and there's a certain hazel-eyed blonde who's partly to blame. It's a tricky thing; despite knowing she can always go home, Quinn's got her wondering whether going home might mean _staying_ right where she is.

"Rach...?"

"Huh?" she asks, stirring from her daze.

"I mean you know I can just lend you the money, right?"

Rachel gapes. "What? No! God, no, Quinn, that's not at all what I was getting at."

"I know you weren't. But _I'm_ saying I could lend you the money and it wouldn't be any big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal."

"Not really," Quinn says, shrugging.

"Well, it is to me."

"Well, get over it."

"Get over what? Quinn, I am not about to extort large sums of money from you at Christmas."

"Extort?" Quinn chuckles. "Rachel, I'm offering to buy you a plane ticket home. You can pay me back later if you want."

"Of course I would want to do that."

"Well, no rush," Quinn says, shrugging again.

Rachel huffs in frustration. She's talking to a wall, clearly, but it's the air of detachment in Quinn's tone that's really getting under her skin. If Rachel didn't know better—and she doesn't—she might think Quinn was trying to get rid of her. She seems rather intent on shipping her back to Lima on the first available flight.

Maybe Quinn's already made plans for the holidays; big _sexy_ plans, on ice. There's no doubt that skating in Central Park becomes significantly less harrowing once Rachel Berry leaves New York entirely.

Maybe Quinn has plans with Claude. Claude's probably an excellent skater.

Okay, time to be reasonable. She sits up straighter in her seat and fixes Quinn with a pointed stare. "Okay," she says, nodding decisively. "I'll accept your offer on one condition."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Oh you will, huh?"

"Yes, I will. On one condition."

"And what condition would that be?" Quinn asks, sounding slightly amused.

"Come with me," Rachel states, eyes unflinching as she holds Quinn's gaze.

"I…" Quinn gapes silently for a moment, then shakes her head. "I'm not going back to Lima, Rachel."

"Quinn."

"No," she says, shifting in her chair. "No, I'm sorry but it's out of the question. I'm not going back..._there_."

"But what about going back with _me_?" Rachel asks.

Quinn looks at her in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, come home with me. Spend the holidays with me and my Dads. Come on, it'll be festive and musical and so much _fun_!" She beams across the table at Quinn, who looks unconvinced.

"And what would your Dads have to say about that?" Quinn asks, an edginess creeping into her tone.

Rachel shrugs. "I'm sure they'd say 'the more the merrier.' And then we'd all sing about it."

"No, I mean what would they say about you bringing home the former head cheerleader who made your high school years a living hell? What would they say about that, huh?"

Rachel stiffens. A chill runs up her spine, more frigid than a…than a...

_Don't say a slushie facial._

"Quinn…" Rachel murmurs. She had no idea the girl was still stuck _there_, in those dreary halls of McKinley High. Rachel rarely goes down that road at all these days, other than to mentally correct a note in one of her solos from sophomore year. Or to mentally correct a note in someone _else's_ solo from senior year.

Or to randomly ask why, _why_ did that one stairwell near the choir room _always_ smell like urine? She'll never know.

Quinn's still waiting on some form of an answer, a hardened, wary look in her eyes. Rachel only wishes to pull Quinn out of the past, drag her out by her hair if she has to. Because it's all good, really it is. The corn syrup has long since cleared from her eyes, the purple and red and occasionally orange stains rinsed clean from her beloved animal sweaters. Her fashion sense back then couldn't have been made _worse_ by a splash of artificial food coloring here and there.

More importantly, neither she nor her fathers are the types to begrudge Quinn, or anyone, for being, shall we say, less than the best version of oneself during the most confusingly awkward time in one's life. It would be different if Quinn was still strutting around, hands on her hips, dishing out insults like indigestible cafeteria food. But look at her: she evolved, she grew up, she learned a few things. She's a whole new person now. That's worth something in the Berry household. If it wasn't, Finn never would've made it past the front door; Puck either; Jesse either (no one believes it, but Rachel swears she's _still_ washing that egg out of hair).

It's on the tip of her tongue to relay all this to Quinn, but the words catch in her throat, her expression clouding over as a horrible, awful realization descends heavily upon her.

"Oh," Rachel says, voice low and despondent. "I think I...I think I get it now."

Quinn isn't in much better shape on her end of the table. "Get what?" she asks.

"All this...this so-called generosity on your part," Rachel says. She looks pointedly at Quinn. "It's because you feel guilty, isn't it?"

Quinn practically winces as Rachel's words slice through her. "No," she insists, shaking her head. "I mean yes, I do feel that way, but it's not why—"

"Well _forget it_," Rachel grits out, picking up her textbook and slamming it onto the table without even feeling the weight of it in her hands. "I don't need charity from you, Quinn. I don't need a pity friend who gives me free coffee and takes me ice skating like it's community service."

"Are you being serious right now?" Quinn asks, her voice growing heated. "You're the one who took _me_ in, remember? That first night on Thanksgiving, I was _your_ charity case."

"Yes, and you felt unworthy of my hospitality, on account of our checkered past. You've been paying me back ever since, if only to clear your own conscience."

Quinn points a finger at her. "These are your words, Rachel. _Your words_, not mine."

"Well, one of us had to say it," Rachel shoots back, twisting the knife in deeper. "Otherwise where would it end? Tell me, Quinn, have you created some sort of charity foundation in my name? Plant a tree, save an endangered species—or better yet, make a former high school loser feel like royalty at Christmas! I sure hope you can use it as a tax write-off."

And with that, Quinn is done. Rachel knows it as soon as the last vicious word fires off her tongue. Those hurt-filled hazel eyes cut into her, so deep she imagines a person nearby has already called for an ambulance.

When Quinn finally speaks, her tone is cold enough to turn a hot cup of coffee to solid ice. "Well, I guess you can write off these past few weeks in your future memoir, since they apparently meant nothing at all."

Quinn slams her book shut; she hadn't been doing much reading anyhow. The page wasn't dog-eared, however, and Rachel worries she'll have a hard time finding where she last left off.

"Quinn…"

"What?" Quinn snaps, her jaw so tense she can barely form the word.

Rachel swallows the lump in her throat, her gaze falling to the closed book on the table, then back up to Quinn's. "You lost your place," she says, voice weak and mournful.

Quinn stares at her intensely for a moment. "You think I don't know that?"

Pushing back from the table, Quinn rises to her feet, gathering her book and throwing her coat over her shoulders as she mutters about having somewhere to be. Rachel knows better than to think that _somewhere_ is anywhere Quinn would desire her company.

She's rooted to the spot anyhow, powerless to do what she wants to do, which is flip the tables and chairs upside-down as she shoots to her feet, tears across the room, then throws her whole body in front of the doorway to block Quinn's path.

If only Rachel hadn't blazed that path herself with her own callous, cutting words.

Quinn's already out the door when she finally pulls her feet out of cement, Quinn's name ripping from her throat in a desperate shriek. But it's too late. Rachel can see she's already long gone, a gust of cold wind lingering in her wake.

She races along the floor-length windows, fingertips clawing against the foggy glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of blonde streaking past, if only to see it leaving.

But of course the tears in her eyes make it hard to see a thing.


	5. It's A Girl This Time

In the days that follow, the population of New York City feels to Rachel as if it's been diminished by millions. There are moments when not even a subway packed with people standing shoulder to shoulder, body to body, could convince her that all of Manhattan hasn't emptied out completely. That's how Rachel feels: emptied out completely.

All it took was the absence of one girl. One girl who isn't even that far gone, could easily be two streets over, walking parallel to Rachel, but no matter; it still feels as if they're worlds apart.

Rachel's phone is dead, or may as well be; it serves no purpose as far as she can see. Quinn doesn't call, and not for one moment does Rachel expect her to.

Rachel doesn't call Quinn either. Twice, she types out a full text, a thousand words saying one word: _sorry_.

She deletes without sending.

It's unlike her to spend so much time in bed, burrowed way down deep, covers pulled up over her head like she's hiding out for the long term.

Kurt is concerned. She knows because he keeps bringing her tea while humming their rendition of "Happy Days Are Here Again/Get Happy."

But Rachel doesn't hum her part of the duet, can't even bring herself to get her voice in tune, let alone get happy about anything. It's one of a handful of times in her life when her heart only knows the saddest songs.

Her exams come and go. The grades she puts up are...what they are. Not quite a Gold Star effort on her part, but here's the thing: the rumors of Rachel Berry being an anal retentive student, while flattering, are often grossly exaggerated. In truth, she's only ever been a stickler for the things she cares deeply about. Music Theory and Period Pattern Drafting do not fit that criteria.

Speaking of caring deeply, she's on her way home after completing her last exam when a gust of wind catches her in its frigid grip. It practically sweeps her up and blows her in the direction of the Rising Star cafe.

Rachel hasn't been down that road in days, and the thought of stepping out of the cold, into the calm crackling fire of Quinn's gaze feels like something warm poured over her heart.

The warmth is only fleeting as reality falls on her like a bucket of ice, chilling her to the bone.

What makes her think those hazel eyes would take her in now? They're far more likely to throw her out on the street. Or worse: treat her like a one-size-fits-all, as if she's just another one of the regulars. She can't bear the thought of Quinn's generic, dispirited voice asking, _May I help you?_

Rachel's answer would be _yes_, Quinn could help her. Help her understand why, why does it hurt like this? It really shouldn't, should it? She really, _really_ ought to know by now, how to hurt like a pro, like an _artist_.

She's no stranger to heartache, after all. She knows pain; mostly _Finn _pain, which was boy pain, which was...different.

Different, as in...as in...

God, she hardly knows what to do with the notion of all that "boy pain" feeling petty and regressive and small, childish as a box of Valentines compared to Quinn cutting her so deep she can't breathe.

She recalls breathing without Finn. Not only breathing, but _singing_, some of her greatest performances at that. Her version of "My Man" still brings the house down at NYADA's Battle of the Ballads night.

It worked out pretty well for her, actually, all those feelings of longing and dejection and regret; she can pull them out like back-pocket emotions, put them on and take them off like a costume change. Looking back, there'd been a fair amount of theatricality in her teenage melodrama. She couldn't see it at the time, how her repertoire as an artist got fuller, richer with every tear cried for a boy she could never figure out how to make stay.

She'll have to remember to thank him for that one day.

But she doesn't ever want to thank Quinn for _this_. All this moping and withdrawing, voice lodged in her throat as she burrows way down deep with the covers pulled over her head. There's not a shred of theatricality in any of it. No melodrama either. It's all just too damn real.

_But why?_

With that question in mind, she lets the wind blow her Westward and within minutes she's wiping her feet on the rug inside of Rising Star, watching a blonde with a tight-set jaw and downcast eyes bang around behind the counter like she's brewing something deadly.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," Rachel is tempted to warn the customers heading out the door with their coffee orders in hand.

Several orders are up before Quinn just so happens to glance up suddenly, noticing her there, their eyes connecting across the crowded room. Rachel feels it like contact—physical, _bodily_ contact, like Quinn could put her through a wall with that tractor beam gaze. You'd think she'd have lost her breath, but the truth is, she hasn't breathed in days. A replenishment of pure air fills her lungs as her heart finds a rhythm she could carry a tune to, easily.

She just needed those hazel eyes to find her again.

All this despite Quinn barely flinching at the sight of her.

But at least Rachel is now a sight to be seen.

And honestly, anything short of the phrase "F*ck You Rachel Berry" etched across the chalkboard menu she takes as invitation to grab a spot in line behind the other customers.

She waits her turn, heart fluttering anxiously. This isn't how she wanted it to be, shuffling toward the counter in a slow procession. She thinks she deserves a better spot in line than the guy in front of her ordering a latte with a shot of tabasco—who then explains, in unsolicited detail, the digestive health benefits it provides him.

But at least he's an easy act to follow. Rachel steps on up, wishing very much that she could step closer, but the counter's in the way; a lot of things are in the way, like her sudden uncertainty as to whether she should've come at all.

Quinn regards her with an unfazed face, although Rachel can see her chest rising and falling beneath many layers of apron, sweater, t-shirt, skin. Rachel sees right through it: Quinn's act of trying not to feel a thing. It hasn't been working out very well for her. Rachel can see that much as well.

Not wanting to hold up the line, she manages a soft, "Hi."

"Hi," Quinn replies, her voice coming out flat, but raspy. Raspier than usual, as if she's up to two packs a day.

Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but falters. There _had_ been some pressing issue on her mind when she'd first walked in. Now it seems the only thing for her to do is hurry up and order something to go...and then leave.

"Quinn, I...I don't know what I want."

Something like profound knowing flickers in Quinn's eyes. As if by strings, it pulls her out of a glum, glowering slump and into a stance more characteristic of the girl Rachel knows so well. Shoulders back, chin and chest up, brows arched slightly, she asks, "How about tea?"

Rachel nods fervently. It's easily the best idea anyone's ever had for her. "Yes," she says. "Yes, tea would be perfect, Quinn. Thank you."

"What kind?"

"Pardon?"

"What _kind_ of tea would you like?"

"Oh...I don't...the one with the—"

"How 'bout I just chose something for you?" Quinn offers.

Rachel's so good with that. She nods, a soft smile ghosting, other words writing themselves eloquently all over her face.

Quinn nods too, her gaze falling to the cash register in front of her. In her own quiet way, she looks satisfied just to be pushing whatever buttons are bringing Rachel closer to a nice warm cup of tea. Still, she's very business-like in the way she rings up the order; she also charges Rachel the full retail price.

It's just as well, Rachel thinks, sliding her credit card through the reader. She doesn't want the half-dozen customers breathing down her neck wondering why the short brunette just got a freebie.

The moment of truth comes when she steps to the side and waits, watching Quinn bustle around behind the counter to fix her tea. Oh how she loves to watch Quinn work. She recalls those times when Quinn would glance up at her from behind the counter, grinning wickedly as though brewing some annoying customer's doom. She'd be wearing _that_ look, like she could slip something deadly into their coffee if Rachel so much as dared her to do it. Rachel never dared, would only shake her head reproachfully until Quinn agreed to let them live.

Well, except for the time she overheard a man say that Barbra's Academy Award for "Evergreen" was undeserved. With the savagery of a mob boss, she'd given Quinn a nod that said two words: _POISON HIM_.

More than anything, though, she remembers Quinn winking at her from across the room, a soft smile quirking her lips as if...as if the two of them were in on the same secret.

The image sticks, hovers like a Polaroid in her mind's eye.

But suddenly the Polaroid is snatched away, ripped right down the middle.

"Here you go," Quinn says, voice rushed and impersonal as she places something under Rachel's nose, then hurries away.

Rachel's drops her gaze, heart dropping with it.

Quinn didn't give her a ceramic mug this time. A paper to-go cup, generic and disposable, sits on the counter alongside some other random patron's macchiato. _The ceramic mugs must all be dirty_, Rachel tells herself, even as an entire rack full of sparkling clean mugs fresh from the dishwasher lurks in her periphery.

She knows she's taking this awfully hard, this standard-issue paper cup with a plastic lid; it's hardly a kiss of death, or a restraining order served in liquid form. If anything, it's merely an invitation to do as she pleases. She can stay, or she can go. The choice is entirely her own.

That's how she knows she can't stay.

She pulls herself together—crazy as it sounds, she sort of _feels_ as if she's scattered sloppily all over the place, her limbs torn, her heart bleeding, people stumbling and falling over her mess, injuring themselves badly. She's a hazard, really, and so she collects her cup of tea, directs an estranged sounding "thank you" toward the blonde who is now well out of ear-shot, her back turned as she tends to the next customer, and the next, and the next.

Feeling like a sight unseen, Rachel vanishes out the door as if she'd never been there at all.

She walks the streets, parts of her disappearing with every step she takes, until her eye catches something that brings one or two of those parts back to life. Scrawled on the side of her cup, in Quinn's elegant, artful handwriting, is the name: _Rach_.

A single flower blooms in the winter of her heart.

She knows it's silly. And yes, given their history, it's sort of a bare minimum requirement that Quinn know her name.

But she swears there's something intimate in the "Rach" of it all. Even the looped, ribbon-like ends of Quinn's cursive-written letters give the impression of a name being whispered under the table in secret.

It's a secret Rachel keeps, close to her heart as she makes her way home.

* * *

Kurt overhears his roommate humming "Just Leave Everything to Me." He knows it's the song she always hums when she's doing something productive. Smiling to himself, he enters her bedroom, bringing his good news along with him.

"Well hello, Dolly," he greets. "I see you're feeling better?"

Rachel looks up from organizing her sheet music and giggles. "Why yes, Mr. Sullivan. Any daffodils you'd like me to arrange?"

"None at the moment, but I'll keep you posted. And speaking of arranging things…"

Rachel eyes him curiously.

"I may have worked out a way for both of us to make it home before Christmas," Kurt continues.

Rachel gapes. "You what? Kurt, that's impossible. Even a multi-platinum recording contract couldn't buy me a ticket home before the 25th. Even Frontier is booked solid—I've checked."

Kurt sighs dramatically. "I realize you're a modern woman, Mrs. Gallagher Levi, but some of us still prefer to travel by land, not air." He deadpans. "And no, I'm not talking about a horse and carriage."

"Are you sure?" Rachel presses. "Because last I checked, you and I were both stranded here indefinitely, penniless and alone, but satisfied to be proving a point to our parents. Although what that point was, I've long forgotten...but at least our memories of _Hamilton_ are everlasting."

Kurt stares at her impatiently. "Are you done? Because I was actually going somewhere with all of this."

"Right, sorry. Continue."

"Anyway. As you may recall, my—" he hesitates before adding "—boyfriend, Adam, happens to own a car."

"You mean that beat-up old taxi cab?" Rachel asks.

"It was his grandmother's," Kurt defends, as if it's something sacred. "His _late_ grandmother's, I should say. Anyway, he's driving home to visit some family in Kentucky, but he's agreed to take a little side trip to Lima so I can introduce him to Blaine—_I mean my parents_."

Rachel doesn't miss Kurt's little slip of the tongue. "Did you just say Blaine?"

"What? No," Kurt insists. He shakes his head fervently, trying to appear as if he's never known anyone by that name.

Rachel eyes him skeptically for a moment, then shrugs. "Well, it's awfully nice of Adam to lend his services. So when do you leave?"

"_We_," Kurt corrects, making a roundabout gesture that includes himself, Rachel, and the currently not-present Adam, "are leaving on the 24th."

Rachel flinches in surprise. "Um, wow...are you sure Adam's okay with that? Me tagging along and everything?"

Kurt shrugs. "Why wouldn't he be? As long as you promise not to turn _every single Christmas carol_ into a blood-thirsty vocal battle, I'm sure we'll all get along beautifully."

Rachel frowns, conflicted. She can't realistically promise that, for one thing. And, as much as her heart swells at the thought of surprising her Dads in Lima, she isn't dying to spend eight hours in a dilapidated taxi with Kurt and his more-than-friend Adam (whom she suspects is a mere accessory in Kurt's plan to send Blaine spiraling into a jealous rage this holiday season).

Not to mention there's a certain hazel-eyed blonde who keeps showing up in every future scenario she conjures in her mind. Rachel knows it's her own heart inviting Quinn every time...which makes it all the more confusing.

"Rachel?" Kurt asks, thrown off by her lack of response. He'd expected a hard yes from his best friend, whom he knows misses her Dads more than anything in the world.

But perhaps Rachel's world has grown as of late, enough to include another. A _significant_ other.

A look of understanding creeps onto Kurt's face, his perception of Rachel's world growing blonder as he pieces it all together in his mind.

"Sorry, what?" Rachel asks, stirring from her deep daze. She blushes under Kurt's stare. "Sorry, I...sorry."

"It's fine," Kurt assures her. "You don't have to decide anything right now. It's entirely up to you, Rach. No pressure at all."

She smiles gratefully. "Thanks, Kurt. I'll keep you posted, okay?"

Kurt nods, a twinkle in his eye as he exits Rachel's room, giving her some space to gather her thoughts. He'll fix a pot of tea, in case she feels like talking later.

* * *

Rachel doesn't talk, mostly because her thoughts are a convoluted mess; she can't find her way out of them, much less put them into words. She _had_ been on a roll there for a minute, her head feeling clearer, heart feeling lighter, before Kurt had barged in and presented her with what should've been the best news imaginable.

Except it wasn't.

How to explain? She can't. She _can_, but feels ashamed to admit it. Admit that she can think of better things to do on a cold Christmas Eve night than show up on that old familiar doorstep in Lima, snow falling on her eyelashes as she surprises her Dads, their jaws gaping, hearts singing as they welcome her inside.

It shouldn't be allowed to get any better than that. And yet...something's missing.

Her gaze wanders over to where her phone sits, neglected, on top of her bedside table. What she ought to do is call her fathers and tell them she's sorry, she's so, so sorry that she can't come home for the holidays.

How could she possibly go when going would mean leaving? Leaving her.

_Her._

It's a her this time. She is a she, or rather Quinn is a Quinn is a…

_STOP IT._

_Stop acting like you don't know._

_You DO know._

_SO CALL HER. Tell her what you know._

She's still grappling for what to say as she reaches for her phone, pulls up Quinn's contact. She wants to say everything, but, given the circumstances, feels as if "everything" ought to start with one word:

**Hi**

She hits send, the word going out into the ethers, hopefully from her heart to Quinn's. When her text goes unanswered for mere seconds, she panics, wondering if perhaps she could've said that better. Emoji'd it up a little, or tacked on an exclamation point. "Hi!" sounds a bit aggressive, but still better than a ho-hum "Hi" like she'd happened to think of Quinn mid-yawn while dying of boredom.

She passes the one minute mark, and, well, it's obvious: Quinn hates her. Rachel's sure of it as she contemplates just throwing her phone out the window and never texting anyone ever again—

**Hi**

Quinn said "Hi" back.

"Quinn said 'Hi' back!" Rachel shouts to God, Barbra, and, by default, Kurt, who's the only living person within earshot.

"Well duh, she's been in love with you for like five-ever!" Kurt calls from the living room.

Rachel must not have heard him right. He must think they're doing that thing—that actor thing where they spontaneously snap into character and begin improvising. Silly Kurt! She's being for real this time, not goofing around inside some alternate thespian universe.

Fingers twitching with excitement, she types a follow-up message.

**Thank you for the tea**

The seconds tick by, Rachel's breath evening, her nerves steadying as she patiently awaits Quinn's response; assuming there's going to be any response at all.

_Just take your time, Quinn. It's alright. I'm right here. I'm right here, sweetie…_

Her phone buzzes with Quinn's reply.

**You're welcome**

A few more seconds, and then:

**I miss you**

Rachel breath hitches, her eyes misting as she types out five of the truest words her heart has ever known.

**I miss you too Quinn**

Feeling bolder, she doesn't hesitate to follow up with:

**Would you like to come over?**

Rachel waits eagerly, already making a space for the girl. The space was there all along, yes, but now she's decking it out, making it all neat and nice and ready for the girl to come home to.

**Thanks. But I think I'm going to turn in early tonight. Can I come by tomorrow morning?**

Rachel has never answered yes so fast. Someday soon, she hopes Quinn won't even think she has to ask.


	6. Kiss the Cook

It's December 18th, her birthday. She's awakened bright and early by a Facetime call from her Dads. They sing her a spirited, albeit slightly pitchy, rendition of "Happy Birthday," her Dad clearly trying to upstage her Daddy on the last note.

"I'm sorry about that, honey. Apparently your Dad thinks he's Celine at the '98 Grammys. Not what we agreed upon in rehearsal, Hiram."

Before a round of bickering ensues, Rachel assures them that it was all fine. A stunning performance from them both.

As always, her Dads are itching to talk—and talk and talk and talk. Rachel doesn't want to come off like she's shooing them off the phone, fleeing the conversation before it veers into _so have you met any nice young men with perfect pitch lately?_ territory, but she really, _really _needs to get out of bed and get ready for a certain someone who said she'd be coming by tomorrow.

Tomorrow is now today.

"Sweetheart, is everything alright? You seem a little antsy. Not to mention your face is remarkably flushed."

"Well, don't embarrass her, Hiram, it might be a gastrointestinal issue," her Dad scolds her Daddy under his breath.

And with that, Rachel has to go. Well, not "go," not like _that_. Just...ugh. Anyway. She manages to end the call quickly, her non-existent "issue" serving as an easy out.

God bless her concerned, slightly insane parents. She hopes she'll be seeing them very soon.

* * *

Quinn didn't specify what time she'd be coming over. Rachel considers just texting the girl and asking for an E.T.A., but doesn't want to appear over-eager. As if she's just sitting around, painting her toenails while she waits for Quinn to come knocking.

Which is exactly what she's doing. Really, she's just biding her time as she listens for the sound of footsteps in the hall. She's only got ten toes to paint, however, and after screwing the cap back on the bottle, she reaches for her phone, pulls up their texts from last night. Silly as it is, she wants to make sure she read everything right. She squints, but finds no cryptic meaning in Quinn's _Can I come by tomorrow?_

She nods, satisfied that she hadn't just dreamed the whole thing up in her mind. Quinn will come, just as she said she would, and Rachel will be here, waiting.

Deciding to busy herself with something productive and fun—it isn't the grim reaper she's waiting on, after all—she ties Kurt's "Kiss the Cook" apron around her waist and goes to work on a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies. Quinn's favorite.

The shrill grind of her electric mixer muffles the sound of knocking at the door. The sound finds Rachel's ears eventually, snapping her into action as she flicks off the mixer and scrambles toward the door, wiping a flour-covered hand across a sweat-covered brow—oh my, but she's really quite a mess, isn't she? Literally wearing the fruits of her labor all over her hands, face, hair, and—_God, don't scratch your nose!_ And now her nose.

"Rachel?" Quinn's voice filters in through the closed door.

"Coming!" she shrieks, glimpsing her reflection in the mirror mounted on the opposite wall. _Frightening_, but there's no dolling it up now. Hopefully her cookies can serve as something of a diversion. Seizing the door handle, she heaves the Midevil thing aside, cursing and groaning through gritted teeth. One day she'll have a little button that makes all the doors open on their own. Not today, however.

Knees weak, chest heaving, she looks up—_up?_ Is she down? She sure feels like a mop that's just been dragged across the floor, and honestly, what kind of sorcerous glitch in her plan to bake oatmeal raisin cookies led her to _this?_ She'll have to double-check her recipe later. Because wow. She's a mess. She's never felt sloppier in her whole life as the prettiest girl she's ever seen regards her with concerned, slightly puzzled hazel eyes.

"Are you okay?" Quinn asks cautiously.

"Yeah, fine," Rachel says, pulling herself together as best she can.

Quinn looks unconvinced. "You sure about that?"

"Of course! Of course," Rachel insists, trying to act like a stray clump of baking soda hasn't just crawled up her nostril and built an empire inside. She can hardly keep from twitching her nose, scrunching and sniffling as she feels a great sneeze coming on.

"Um...alright then," Quinn says, still eyeing her skeptically. "Well, I just came by to—"

"AAAA-CHOOO!"

And there it was. The big demon sneeze she'd felt burgeoning way down deep inside of her. She couldn't have held it in if she tried, and the momentum from having damn near blown the house down throws her small frame forward into a pitiful hunched-over position.

She breathes heavily for a moment, relieved to find none of her internal organs scattered along the floor.

A soft hand comes to rest against her back.

"Well, that was impressive," Quinn says, a note of amusement in her voice as she runs her hand soothingly up and down Rachel's horizontal back. "You okay?" she asks again.

Rachel groans in response. God, was she broken? She always knew she was on the fragile side, but not to the extent that an epic sneeze could cripple her for life. It's harrowing, truly it is. She groans again, and, with some effort, unfolds her weary body until she's standing somewhat vertical. A stiff strand of hair, crusted with cookie dough, falls across her face. "I'm fine," she says unconvincingly.

"You're sure?" Quinn asks.

Rachel nods, coughs, then paints her face over in a smile. "I was just doing a little baking," she explains, gesturing to the kitchen behind her.

"I see," Quinn says, nodding slowly. "Anything good?"

"Good? Oh...Oh, yes! Yes, I was just about to throw a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies in the oven when you knocked on the door."

"Oh...well, I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"_Interrupt_ me?" Rachel gapes, then blushes slightly. "Quinn, I...I was making them for you..."

"Really?" Quinn asks, surprised.

"Well, of course, silly! Now come on in and have a seat."

She takes Quinn by the hand and leads—not drags, _leads_—her to the kitchen. Quinn follows without protest, her gloveless, cold, lovely hand curling in around Rachel's.

Rachel wants to bundle Quinn up in all the love and warmth she can find. Make her wear the love in layers, upon layers, until it's a roley, puffed-out toddler's snowsuit with mittens clipped to the sleeves.

For now, though, she pulls out a chair at the kitchen table, then motions for her to have a seat. Quinn complies, a faint blush tinting her cheeks, her hand still resting easily in Rachel's.

Rachel smiles down at her guest. "Now, let's get you something nice and warm to drink, Quinn. What would you like? Coffee?"

Quinn looks up at her and Rachel gathers by her expression that she isn't used to looking _up_ at anyone, least of all Rachel Berry. "Um...well, do you have it made? The coffee, I mean."

"No, but I can make it for you. How do you want it? Strong?"

"I...strong, yes. Thank you."

Rachel beams down at the girl. "Of course! Coming right up—your cookies, too."

Quinn smiles shyly and ducks her head.

Rachel feels light and happy, like she could whistle as she goes about fixing a pot of coffee—_strong_, as Quinn likes it.

She's scooping globs of cookie dough onto a baking sheet, her back to Quinn, when she feels hazel eyes on her, tracking her movements. It's an almost tangible sensation, hot on the back of her neck and tingly to the tips of her fingers. The spoon nearly slips from her hand but she holds tight, taking care to distribute her globs evenly. Finished, she turns to pop them in the oven. She has to...to _bend over_ to make this happen, and...well, it's just what she has to do, is all. There's no getting around it.

Who can say why her cheeks are flaming as she bends at the waist, then slides the baking sheet onto the iron rack. It must be her ancient oven breathing hellfire into her face. Nothing more than that.

Rachel stands, wiping her brow as she turns to face her guest. Her beautiful guest, for whom she couldn't look less presentable for. She chuckles weakly in embarrassment, and the smile that stretches her mouth makes the crustiness on her face crackle. She feels the egg yolk in her eyebrows. Also feels like she could sneeze again, but steels herself against it, toes curling, fists clenching.

It's awfully kind of Quinn to appear unfazed by this ghastly version of Rachel that's on display.

And yet...Rachel swears it's more than just basic tactfulness keeping those flawless features set to neutral. In fact, those hazel eyes hold such a peculiar glint in them, as if...as if they quite simply adore her. Egg yolk eyebrows and all.

_Ding_, goes the oven timer. Rachel whips toward the sound, breaking their gaze and shaking her head loose of funny ideas.

She pulls the piping hot tray from the oven—the cookies hadn't taken long at all, Quinn liking them under-baked and gooey. "Ouch, ouch, ouch," she hisses, the tray burning her through her oven mitt. Flinging the tray onto the counter, she yanks her hand free, shaking it frantically against the lingering sting.

The sound is faraway—a chair pushing back, and then footsteps approaching. The hand on her shoulder is close. Closer than touching. She feels it reach right through her skin as Quinn guides her over to the faucet, flicks the cold water on, then places Rachel's injured fingertips underneath it.

Rachel exhales in relief. The fact that she needs new oven mitts is the furthest thing from her mind as Quinn's thumb strokes the inside of her wrist.

"Better?" Quinn asks.

Rachel slowly cranes her neck around, stopping when her brown eyes meet soft hazel. They hold each other's gaze until the shrill beep of the coffee maker cuts through the silence. Releasing Rachel's hand, Quinn shuts the water off and moves away.

"Do you have a towel?" Quinn asks.

"In the—in the drawer behind you."

Nodding, Quinn goes right to it.

Rachel watches, her features clouding over as she observes Quinn's orderly, business-like movements. Something's changed; that, or the tenderness from a moment ago had been purely imagined on her part. Now, she feels more like a kid with a scraped knee, to whom Quinn's administering First Aid.

The feeling stings just like peroxide.

She mutters a weak "thanks" to the clean dish towel Quinn offers her. Drying her wet hand, fingers still flamed-red and sensitive, she feels the burn all over again.

Her frown deepens as Quinn moves to retrieve a mug from the cupboard.

"Do you want coffee?" Quinn asks, glancing over her shoulder at Rachel.

"No," Rachel snaps. She tosses the towel aside. "I made that coffee for _you_, Quinn. I'll get it. You sit back down."

Rachel catches it: those pale cheeks flaming, hazel eyes wide as if gripped by a feeling she hadn't seen coming. It's enough to make Rachel step in closer, shoulders squared, a bit of a challenge about her as she holds Quinn's gaze with confidence.

Surprisingly Quinn is the first to give in. Almost like a scolded child, she ducks her head and moves away from the cupboard. Per Rachel's request—or, rather, Rachel's _orders_, she takes up her seat at the table.

Rachel nods, satisfied. "And how would you like your coffee, Quinn?"

Quinn stares at her for a moment, then drapes an elbow over the back of her chair. She shrugs at the question. "Just black is fine," she says, as if she couldn't care less.

Rachel's brow furrows slightly. "All right. And would you like one of my oatmeal raisin cookies as well? Well, yes, of course you would. Who wouldn't?"

With that, Rachel turns on her heel and goes to work.

"Don't fall," Quinn says.

Rachel stiffens. Quinn did _not_ just say that! And with an unmistakable note of mockery in her tone. She's so offended she can hardly keep her heart from humming wildly in her chest. Her hands are a bit unsteady as she fills a mug to the brim with hot coffee. She pivots back around—_slowly_. She's being careful, but it's those hazel eyes that nearly send the mug crashing to the floor.

"Here you go," she says, voice a bit tight as she places the coffee on the table in front of Quinn.

"Thanks," Quinn says.

"You're welcome. I'm...I'll just—"

She's pulling away when Quinn's hand closes around her forearm. Her breath hitches instantly.

"Hey," Quinn says softy.

Rachel drags her gaze to Quinn's, finding warm hazel. The warmth had been there all along, hadn't it?

_It had._

"Hey," Rachel says.

Quinn smiles. "Happy Birthday."

Rachel's lips part slightly. "You remembered…"

Quinn nods and brushes a rigid strand of hair out of wide chocolate eyes. "I was never able to forget you, Rachel. Six months ago, I finally stopped trying."

The words grip her, tie a string around her heart and reel her in. Who can say, really, why she waited this long to do what she does, which is dive in so deep she can't breathe.

Quinn is still seated when Rachel bends to press her lips against the pale forehead. Hazel eyes flutter closed, a soft sigh escaping her as Rachel's mouth travels lower, kissing Quinn's left lid and then her right.

Quinn's fingers wrap around her waist, pulling her closer, their knees bumping. Rachel's hands come to rest on either side of that lovely face as those darkened eyes pull slowly up to meet hers. She smiles down at the girl, forever in awe of the beauty she's now holding, literally, in the palms of her hands. Hazel eyes stare intensely, her head tilting upward just as Rachel bends to press her lips against Quinn's.

* * *

They're still at the kitchen table, Rachel in Quinn's lap, arms around her neck as she repeatedly dots those red, slightly chapped lips with lingering kisses. She no longer feels the egg yolk in her eyebrows or the flour up her nose or the cookie dough crusted to her forehead. What does it matter how she looks? She feels beautiful to the tips of her toes, and breezy like spring.

Quinn had been holding her so tight, like trying to reach inside her ribcage and touch her so deep, deeper than anything. But now her hand rests easily against her hip, not quite touching her butt, _but please, Quinn, touch my butt._

"Hmmmm…" Quinn sighs. "Your lips…" Another kiss. "...Are nice."

"Yours too," Rachel murmurs. Yet another kiss to Quinn's lips, and then she moves to peck her right cheek, then her left. "That too."

Quinn giggles and presses her forehead against Rachel's. She releases a deep breath, eyes falling shut. "I've wanted to do that for a long time. Longer than you know."

"I think I might know," Rachel says. "That is, I'm starting to. Quinn, when you moved to the city, it wasn't purely by chance that you wound up living in an apartment two miles from mine...was it?"

"It couldn't possibly have been by chance, Rachel. This city is full. I had to troll the internet for weeks just to find a place within a ten mile radius of yours."

Rachel can see there's more to that story. "And then…?"

"And then I paid the landlord to bump my application to the top of the pile." She hesitates before continuing. "And then...I sort of agreed to go on a date with the guy."

Rachel gasps. "You what? Quinn, do you have any idea how dangerous that is? I mean that guy could've easily—"

"Rach, it's okay. I brought an urn with me on our date. It was fake, but I filled it with sand and told him I liked to carry my late grandmother's ashes with me everywhere I went. He never contacted me again."

Rachel takes a moment to process this, then throws her head back laughing. "Okay...okay, I'm going to stop asking questions."

"That's probably a good idea."

"But there is something I'd like to say to you," Rachel says, growing serious.

"Sure, Rach. Anything," Quinn says, running her hand up and down Rachel's thigh.

Rachel shivers before proceeding. "Well, first I want—I _need_ you to know that you did not, by any means, make my high school years a living hell."

Quinn's expression clouds over. Discussions of the past tend to have that effect on her. "You don't have to sugar coat it, Rachel. In fact, it only hurts me when you try. That day at Starbucks when you accused me of befriending you out of charity...you were wrong, Rachel, _so_ wrong, but I think what stung me the most was that I knew, right then, that there was no amount of the stars or the moon I could give you to make you understand."

Rachel shifts a little in Quinn's lap. "Understand what?" she asks gently.

Quinn takes a deep breath before slowly pulling her eyes up to Rachel's. "That I need to be close to you, Rach...always."

And with that, Rachel finally understands so many things; not only about Quinn, but about herself as well. Her eyes are misty as she wraps her arms around the blonde, hugging her tight. Quinn lets out a shuddering breath as she embraces Rachel right back.

"Is this close enough for you?" Rachel whispers after a long silence.

"Honestly, no. Not nearly," Quinn murmurs, face buried in Rachel's shoulder. "But it's really, really nice..."

They stay that way for a very long time, and then both speak up simultaneously, talking over one another.

"I have something for you," Quinn says.

"You didn't eat your cookie," Rachel says.

They break their hug, both drawing back to look at the other in confusion.

"Did you say I didn't eat my cookie?" Quinn asks with a chuckle.

Rachel shrugs. "Well, you didn't."

"Well, you didn't give me one."

"I most certainly did!" Rachel protests. With a huff, she twists in Quinn's lap, expecting to find a freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookie with not so much as a nibble taken from it. She comes up short, finding nothing but a mug full of black coffee sitting neglected on the table. She'd meant to fetch Quinn a cookie off the piping hot baking sheet, but never got around to it. Though, to be fair, Quinn had been the one distracting her. "You're right," she admits, twisting back around. "Forgive me, I forgot. Just wait here and I'll get you one."

She presses a chaste, but firm kiss to Quinn's lips, Quinn grinning dopily and then whining in protest when Rachel stands from her lap.

It takes a few hard flicks of her spatula to scrape one measly cookie off the baking sheet. Had she been a little less preoccupied she would've followed standard protocol, transferred them onto a cooling rack when they were still gooey-warm and fresh from the oven. But, well, she can't really be _too_ concerned with the state of her oatmeal raisin cookies, not when Quinn sidles up behind her, arms snaking around her waist, chin dropping to her shoulder.

"Need any help?" the husky voice asks.

The spatula nearly slips from Rachel's grasp. She'll likely set the kitchen on fire before the day is through. "I've got it," she says, a teasing lilt to her voice as she successfully unsticks a cookie from the sheet. Feeling bold, she turns inside the circle of Quinn's arms, nose bumping against the blonde's. "Here," she says, grinning.

"Hm?" Quinn asks.

"Open your mouth."

Quinn's jaw drops, half in compliance, half in sheer awe of the command itself. Rachel can only grin at the sight, her back against the counter, her front against the front of Quinn as she brings her left arm up, cookie in hand, and invites those rosy, beautiful lips to reach out and take a bite. Their eyes lock as Quinn accepts the invitation, neck craning forward, teeth sinking into warm, textured softness.

Their eyes hold tight as Quinn lets out an "Mmmm," chewing slowly as though savoring every grain, drawing out the taste and letting it linger on her tongue before diving in for another bite—and then another and another. "They're delicious, Rach," she says with her mouth full.

Rachel, while never one to deflect a compliment, can't bring herself to beam with pride for the toasted hockey pucks she just scraped off her baking sheet. "I'm afraid they're incredibly well done," she admits with a sigh.

Quinn stares at her, still chewing. "Well there's no need to brag," she says flatly.

Rachel pouts. "I was not—that's not what I—you knew exactly what I meant, Quinn Fabray!"

Quinn smirks, her eyes crinkling with laughter. Rachel does _not_ appreciate the crinkling.

"I know, I know," Quinn says. "Sorry. I just wanted to see you pout."

"Who's pouting? Not me."

"Sorry, my mistake. But hey, do you think I could maybe, _possibly_ trouble you for a glass of milk, my dear?"

"Why of course," Rachel says, softening enough to peck Quinn's lips. "But you're getting almond milk as punishment for your snark-asm," she adds, then wriggles herself out of Quinn's grasp.

"I'm sure I can choke it down."

Quinn's voice barely reaches Rachel's ears as she scours her fridge for a carton of milk; _real_ milk, from a cow, not an almond. Her vindictiveness from a moment ago was just for show. In truth, she'd probably buy the cow and milk it herself to keep Quinn's throat from going dry.

She turns around, milk carton in hand, and finds Quinn standing somewhat purposefully before her, a sleek white envelope in her hands. She seems to have pulled it out of thin air, and the way those hazel eyes hold a twinkle inside them, those lips flirting with a secretive grin, reminds Rachel of when she was a little girl and one of her fathers would come home with a present for her. She used to call it their "Santa Claus smile." Despite being Jewish, it's easily one of the best facial expressions that's ever been projected towards her.

And to be honest, Quinn wears it better than Santa Claus himself ever could.

"This is, um...for you," Quinn says, turning the envelope over in her hands another time before offering it out to Rachel.

Rachel stares at it in awe. It looks to her like something Quinn plucked from the sky and delivered to her on a white pillowy cloud. "Thank you," she murmurs, accepting the envelope with her free hand.

"Maybe set the milk carton down first?" Quinn suggests lightly.

"Oh...oh!" Rachel gasps, remembering. "Here, let me pour you a glass of—"

"Rach, it's okay, don't worry about—"

"Quinn," Rachel insists. "Please, for the love of Barbra, let me pour you a glass of milk. Surely it's something you're in dire need of after chewing your way through that over-baked atrocity I forced down your throat."

"They weren't that bad, Rach. Honestly."

Rachel casts a wary eye over her shoulder as she sets Quinn's "gift" off to the side, willing herself not to tear into it like she wants. Apart from her NYADA acceptance letter, no envelope has ever held more intrigue. Her heart flutters in anticipation of what could be inside. It's a struggle to keep her voice and hands steady as she retrieves a glass from the cupboard. "Really, Quinn, it's kind of you to flatter me, but this particular batch of cookies could easily function as DIY Christmas ornaments. Hardly my best work."

She pivots around, careful not to spill the generous glass of milk she's poured for Quinn.

"Thanks," Quinn says.

Rachel frowns when Quinn takes but the tiniest sip, barely skimming the top off before turning and setting the glass on the table. Perhaps Quinn really did like her cookies after all, and had requested the milk purely for dunking purposes. Whatever the case, the blonde seems a bit preoccupied, anxious even, her eyes twitching left and right as if waiting on a gaggle of guests to pop out of hiding and yell "surprise!"

"Quinn? Are you...do you need—"

"Rach," Quinn says, jaw tensing as she flicks her head toward the envelope on the counter. "_Open it_."

"What? Oh!" Rachel shrieks, nearly stumbling and falling somewhere in the three-step distance to the counter. There it is: the mysterious white envelope, looming like a gift-wrapped elephant in the corner of the room. She slides it off the counter, then turns to face Quinn, nerves and embarrassment gripping her unexpectedly as she begins tearing at the seal. She's pretty sure she hears Quinn gulp just before she reaches in, pulls out a…

Plane ticket. _Singular_.

"Oh my God," she murmurs, reading the fine print. "Quinn, this is…"

"I hated the thought of you not spending the holidays at home with your Dads," Quinn explains. "Now you'll get to spend your birthday with them too. Or at least part of it."

Rachel slowly pulls her eyes up to Quinn's. "Quinn, this flight leaves in two hours."

Quinn nods. "Yeah. It's a direct flight—the weather forecast looks clear, so you shouldn't run into any delays. When you get there, Brittany is going to meet you at the gate and drive you home to surprise your Dads. I already paid her and everything, so don't even worry." She looks at Rachel, eyebrows raised as if searching for signs of life. "...Okay?"

Rachel doesn't know anything, except that it's maybe the sweetest, most thoughtful gift anyone's ever given her. Okay, so then she _does_ know a few things. "Quinn, I can't believe you did this."

"I'm sorry it's so abrupt. I texted Kurt and he said you hadn't made any plans for your birthday. He also said you…"

"What?" Rachel asks.

Concern and guilt crosses Quinn's features. "That you'd been holed up in your room for the past week, not singing, not eating, barely even studying for your exams."

"Quinn, that's not your fault," Rachel insists. "You don't need to—"

"I'm not," Quinn states firmly, eyes steadfast and sincere as she takes a step forward. "Whatever you're thinking, about this being a charity or whatever, it isn't like that, okay? Trust me, I'm not _that_ generous by nature."

"Yes you are," Rachel says softly.

"What?"

"You are, Quinn. You are that generous, and you don't even realize."

Quinn begs to differ. There Rachel goes again, giving her the benefit of the doubt, always. But the truth is, Quinn puts her head down and avoids those creepy Salvation Army Santas when she passes them in the street. The truth is, she'd slushied dozens upon dozens back in high school, and yet, for the life of her, couldn't pick a single one of their faces out of a lineup if she had to. Except for Rachel's, of course—and that's the point. And as for befriending anyone out of sheer guilt, to clear her conscience, well, let's just say she wouldn't bother wasting her time or theirs.

You know what _wouldn't_ be a waste of her time, though? Reading five, maybe six books at once while sitting in close proximity to Rachel Berry. It's everything Quinn wants in the world, and more, honestly.

And yet, here she is putting Rachel on a plane to Lima. The one place Quinn won't go. Not soon. Maybe not ever.

It's the strangest thing. She doesn't want Rachel to go, wants to tear that ticket to shreds and let it blow away with the wind. She's jealous of the crappy cow town that's going to get her at approximately six-fifteen this evening. And yet, if she had to do it over, she'd still buy her that ticket again every time.

It's complicated. And yet not that complicated at all. It's simple, really. Rachel Berry has to make it home for the holidays. And Quinn has to be—_wants_ to be the magic elf that makes it happen.

Okay, so maybe she actually is _that_ generous, like Rachel said. Who knew, honestly?

Meanwhile, Rachel can hardly keep her tears at bay as she looks down at the ticket in her hands, her fingers tracing over the inky departure time. She knew when she'd accepted that envelope into her grasp that it had felt far too light. And at the risk of sounding ungrateful, she really wishes there had been not one, but _two_ tickets inside. One for her and one for Quinn.

But there's no use in trying to convince Quinn to get on that plane with her. Quinn won't come home; not home to Lima, anyway. And so, with her departure time drawing nearer by the second, she lays her teary eyes on the blonde, showering her in affection, appreciation, and so much more. "Thank you, Quinn. Thank you so, so very much."

"You're welcome," Quinn says, her eyes misting over as well.

Rachel swallows the lump in her throat. "And what will you do? Spend Christmas all by yourself?"

"I'll be fine," Quinn assures her.

It's true. Quinn will be fine. As long as she has her books, she'll be finer than most. The girl would do well in solitary confinement.

"Okay," Rachel says, willing herself to smile. "Okay, then I guess I'd better start packing."

"I'll help you," Quinn offers.

Rachel doesn't know why she feels like she has to ask. "Can I hug you first?"

"Of course you can," Quinn says, then closes the space between them.


	7. Lost and Found

**A/N: Hello friends. Apologies for the lengthy delay in updates. The summer has been overwhelmingly busy, and...well. Excuses, excuses, am I right? But without further ado, here is the next and final chapter - we've got a lot of ground to cover so let's dive in. Enjoy!**

* * *

"I have to tell you something," Quinn says. They're standing in a sea of frenzied, fast-moving travelers at LaGuardia. When Rachel asked Quinn to accompany her to the airport, Quinn had readily agreed.

"What is it?" Rachel asks, voice thick with trepidation. She doesn't enjoy being _told_ things. Good things, she can handle. Good things are great! Basically, she prefers to know what it is she's about to be told, so she can decide whether or not she wants to hear it. Given the urgency of their surroundings, she can only guess that Quinn's about to drop some huge bomb on her, and then put her on a plane to Lima.

Yeah, probably best not to use the word "bomb" in an airport, Rachel. Even if this is only an internal monologue.

"Rach?...You okay?"

"Huh?" Rachel asks, snapping out of it. "Oh. Yes, I'm fine, Quinn. Go ahead and tell me whatever it is. I'm all ears...and, of course, nose."

Quinn chuckles uneasily. Rachel's brief trip through her own scatterbrain seems to have thwarted their momentum to some degree.

"I…" Quinn starts.

"Quinn?" Rachel asks. She steps in closer and takes hold of the blonde's trembling hand. "It's okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Quinn squares her shoulders and swallows thickly, her hand stiffening inside of Rachel's. "I'm going back to Yale," she says. Her voice is steady, but colorless and flat, as if she'd meant to say something else entirely.

Disappoint rises in Rachel's gut, but she squelches it immediately. "You are?" she asks, injecting some measure of happiness into her tone. It's good news, no doubt, although she'd prefer to know what Quinn was _going_ to say initially, before losing her nerve just now.

"Yeah," Quinn says. "I mean, not right away or anything. I'm too late to enroll in the spring semester, but I can take online courses through The New School, which should transfer over when I return to Yale in the fall. I've been emailing with my old advisor and she thinks it should be a pretty smooth transaction...at least I hope it will be."

"That's wonderful, Quinn," Rachel says. She falls silent for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. "But of course you wouldn't _have_ to go back to Yale necessarily." She watches Quinn's brow furrow and is quick to clarify. "I just mean in the event that it _wasn't _such a smooth transaction and they _wouldn't_ take you back, you could always stay in New York and...but of course, _of course_ they'll take you back! Why on earth wouldn't they? Everything's going to work out for you, Quinn. I don't doubt it for a second."

Quinn's posture is noticeably tense as she gives a small shrug. "Yeah, well...thanks."

Rachel mutters the world's weakest "you're welcome." She doesn't want to speak those two words boldly; not to Quinn, anyway. No one ever says "you're welcome" to a person they love...spending time with.

A fog of awkwardness hovers in the air, neither knowing how to clear it. Quinn, especially, looks as if she needs some room to breathe. Fortunately—or so it seems—Rachel's plane is leaving soon.

Quinn clears her throat. "So, um, you should probably—"

"I should get going," Rachel supplies, holding up the other end of that heavy, couch-sized suggestion.

"Yeah," Quinn says. She slowly slides her hand out from Rachel's, as if it's something Rachel borrowed that she now needs back.

Rachel feels herself hanging on, even as she releases Quinn's hand without protest. But though her heart aches, she thinks she understands what's happening here. This is Quinn closing off and letting go, detaching in the way she's gotten so damn used to. This is how Quinn's able to look her in the eye and swear she's perfectly all right spending Christmas alone, and mean it sincerely.

_Let me back in_, Rachel pleads with her eyes.

But it's no use. She can see Quinn shrinking away, practically pulling her sweater up over her face, her hood over her eyes. Or better yet, she's burying her nose in a book the size of New York itself—partly to hide from the world, and partly to get lost in a story that plays out differently from the one story Quinn never seems to want to read: her own.

"So I'll call you when I land," Rachel says. Her fingers tighten around the plane ticket in her hand; the generous gift that still ought to be twice its size. She wants to thank Quinn again—and again and again and again—but knows Quinn doesn't want to hear it. Not even one more time.

Quinn nods faintly as her eyes find the floor. "Yeah, okay."

Rachel tries to catch those hazel eyes, find them. But again, it's no use. Nothing is. There's no coming back from where they're at right now, this point of no return.

And suddenly, Rachel is almost glad she has to leave.

Still, she can't help but lean in and press her lips to the girl's cheek. "I'll miss you, Quinn," she whispers as she pulls away.

Rachel passes through security and boards the plane, not once looking back over her shoulder. She figures Quinn is already long gone, anyhow. No point in proving herself right.

Had Rachel looked back, however, she would've in fact seen Quinn, her teary eyes following her every step of the way as she willed every fiber in her being not to shout, "Wait!"

There was something Quinn had wanted so very badly to say to Rachel, but the words had gotten lost somewhere in the chaotic, swirling urgency of the moment. She'd tried desperately to find those words, searching all around as if she could've dropped them like loose change scattered all over the floor. Now that she's finally recovered them, it's far too late.

Instead of leaving the airport right away, Quinn stands in front of the floor to ceiling windows, watching as Rachel's plane takes off for Lima.

* * *

The sun wakes Quinn up on Christmas morning. Squinting against the light, she checks the time on her phone, and then, with a yawn, settles back against her pillows.

She loved Christmas once, back when she was a much younger girl. She recalls presents under the tree, her sister playing the piano, her father carving the turkey.

Fifteen years later, she wonders what part of the country she'd be most likely to find her estranged family celebrating the year's most sacred holiday. Had they stayed in Lima or gone to Palm Springs? Quinn doesn't know, and certainly doesn't need to. But still...she _does_ wonder.

But enough of that. She'll text her sister "Merry Christmas" later...and not wait for any response. For now, she gets out of bed and pads over to the kitchen to fix her morning coffee. Maybe later she'll brew a cup of that cinnamon tea Rachel loves so much. Then she'll curl up in her favorite chair and read a book while she drinks it.

Not a bad way to spend Christmas, honestly. Not at all.

She's got a mouthful of toothbrush and toothpaste when a knock at the door disrupts her morning routine. Her brow furrows. That certainly didn't sound like one of her neighbors banging on her door to ask her what day it is. Rather, it was a more of a polite, _excuse me_ style of knocking; one might hear it if they'd ordered room service at a five star hotel. Quinn almost chuckles at the thought. This definitely isn't that kind of building.

The person knocks again.

"Coming," she mutters irritably. Whoever's at her door is just going to have to wait a minute while she spits out her toothpaste and rinses her mouth clean. And to think, her mother wouldn't have ever _dared_ answer the door without a strand of pearls around her neck. But that was back in Lima. As far as Quinn's concerned, just coming to the door without a needle sticking out of her arm is a strand of pearls by New York City standards.

Bed-headed and minty fresh, she pads across the floor, her curiosity growing with every step. She pulls the door open.

A well-dressed man in his fifties greets her with a kind smile. He looks vaguely familiar, though Quinn's unable to place him right off the bat. Aside from that, she has the strange sensation of being welcomed home by the person who knocked on _her_ door. That never happens.

"Good morning, Quinn," the man says brightly. "And Merry Christmas."

She nearly returns the sentiment, but stops, feeling as if a certain guardedness is in order. Strange-ish man. Woman home alone. Neighbors who could probably meditate to the sound of gunshots and bloody murder screaming. They'd be utterly useless if she were to find herself at the mercy of this very polite, dapper gentleman standing outside her door.

She narrows her eyes at him. "I'm sorry, but...do I know you?"

Something clicks then; yes, she does know him! Perhaps the light would've gone on sooner had he brought along the _other_ dapper gentleman she's used to seeing by his side. She recalls picking those two proud, beaming faces out of the audience every time the New Directions took the stage. Even from afar, they always radiated love and acceptance; just like the daughter they'd raised.

Speaking of which...if at least one of the Berrymen is here, in New York, on her doorstep, then…

Her mouth falls open. _Rachel._

Mr. Berry clears his throat. "Well, Quinn, it is indeed very responsible of you to request verification of my identity. Then again, a certain someone would be positively _livid_ with me if I were to reveal too much about myself."

"It's okay," Quinn assures him, her whole demeanor softening as a smile spreads her lips. "It's okay, I know who you are."

His brow quirks in surprise. "Do you, really?"

"Yes, I remember you and your husband coming backstage after Nationals. You also, um, sat behind my mother at graduation."

"Ah, yes! Charming woman," he muses. "_Immaculate_ pearls."

Quinn's smile falters at the mention of her mother.

He continues, "But the way my daughter raves about _you_, dear girl, I expected to find you riding a white horse throughout the streets like the Queen of New York City. Honestly, Rachel just lights up whenever she mentions your name." He looks at her pointedly, growing serious. "It was _you_ who helped bring that light back, Quinn. We haven't seen our little girl this happy in years, and I want to thank you for that. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

An onslaught of emotion grips her unexpectedly. She swallows the lump in her throat, eyes misty with tears. "Of course," she says, her voice nearly breaking.

Mr. Berry smiles down at her, his eyes brimming with warmth and sincerity. "Dear girl, may I give you a hug? Would that be all right?"

A choked sob escapes her just as strong arms wrap her up inside a comforting embrace. She leans into him, shoulders shaking as she cries unabashedly against the sturdy, supportive frame.

"Shhhh," he soothes. "There, there, dear Quinn. It's all right. You're all right, I've got you."

Self-awareness catches hold of her soon enough. She pulls back slowly, embarrassed by her puffy, tear-streaked face. But of course she finds no judgement in the kind eyes staring back at her.

He's almost as beautiful as his daughter, she muses. _Almost_. She smiles weakly, sniffling as she swipes a hand across her cheeks.

"Better?" he asks.

She nods.

"Good. Oh, and you're probably wondering why on earth I'm here in the first place."

It's true, Quinn's abundantly curious, not to mention confused. She hadn't exactly planned on staining Mr. Berry's pocket square with her tears before the morning was through. "Would you like to come inside?" she asks. "I just made a pot of coffee, and—"

"Actually Quinn, I was hoping I could persuade _you_ to come with _me_." He plays those words over his head, then cringes. "Oh, Christ! Did that sound spine-tinglingly creepy enough to you?"

Quinn chuckles. "It's okay, Mr. Berry. I…" she trails off, looks him pointedly in the eye, then adds, "I trust you. And yes, I will gladly come along with you."

He beams down at her. "Wonderful. Rachel will be so—" he stops himself and claps a hand over his mouth, his kind eyes twinkling. "_Oops_. You didn't hear me say that name."

"Of course I didn't," Quinn says with a knowing grin.

"Good," he says, winking at her. "Now, why don't you run along and get ready, then meet me downstairs in the lobby. I'll tell the driver to wait. Take as much time as you need."

"The driver?" Quinn asks, more intrigued than ever.

He narrows his eyes. "Now, dear girl, I mustn't reveal _all_ my secrets." With a finger pressed to his lips, he winks at her again, then peels off down the hall.

She stares after him, in awe of his sharply-dressed, retreating frame. In awe of _everything_, really. Her heart flutters wildly in her chest. Is she dreaming? Probably. This sure _feels_ like something that ought to be happening to someone else entirely. Anyone but her.

And yet, as she hustles about, fixing her hair and face, pulling dresses and shoes and jewelry out of her closet, there must be some small part of her that truly believes…believes she's wide awake, and not dreaming.

* * *

The taxi driver seems to have some difficulty keeping his eyes on the road. Twice, Quinn catches him ogling her in the rearview mirror, and both times Mr. Berry clears his throat sharply, daring the guy to steal another glance.

Okay, so she must've cleaned up decently enough. At least by a cabbie's standards.

In truth, she only hopes she doesn't look flat-out ridiculous. If Mr. Berry's perfectly tailored suit and monogrammed cufflinks are any indication, then she is, without a doubt, dressed appropriately for whatever undisclosed location they're on their way to. She even wore her Tiffany's necklace, for God's sake—the one her parents had given her on her sixteenth birthday. That was the same birthday she'd spent throwing up in the upstairs bathroom. The nausea that had plagued her entire pregnancy was only exacerbated by the houseful of party guests, all of them admiring her as her parents trotted her out like the perfect little debutante she most definitely was not. Two weeks later, she was living in a storage room at Finn's house, a stain on the Fabray legacy and a traitor to the father who'd doted on her since birth.

But anyway, the necklace: it's beautiful, no doubt, and surprisingly understated for her parents' tastes. She'd had to dig through a dozen boxes to find it. She honestly never thought she'd wear it again.

Her dress was a gift as well, both to and from herself. It had started as a gift from Puck, and instead of a dress, had been a piece of lingerie. Puck had sent it to her as a gift for Beth's third birthday, to help her feel like the "smokin' hot M.I.L.F." she still was.

It was _almost_ a sweet gesture, in a completely screwed-up way.

The trouble was, Quinn had never felt like any kind of a mother, smokin' hot or otherwise. She also knew better than to think Puck's motives were entirely pure; he'd undoubtedly sent her that dress in hopes that she would thank him profusely, while wearing it. Or better yet, _not_ wearing it.

But Quinn never thanked him at all. Not even via text. What she _did_ do was return the lingerie to the department store and exchange it for the chiffon cocktail dress she's wearing now. She remembers trying it on in the store and feeling some small inkling of triumph. It wasn't that she'd won. She never _would_ win the losing battles of her past, and she was exhausted from trying.

But she'd at least managed to turn a gift from Puck into a gift from herself. That part had felt like a victory, however personal and small.

It's the first time she's worn the dress out in public. And no, she doesn't feel like a _smokin' hot M.I.L.F._ as Puck would say.

Rachel would never call her that.

"We're almost there, Quinn," Mr. Berry says, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She smiles warmly at the older man. Up ahead, the Millennium Broadway Hotel looms large and magnificent. Rachel would love to spend a few nights there, with its dazzling views of Times Square and close proximity to the theatre district. In fact, Quinn can easily imagine the Berry men booking a room at the Millennium in the not so distant future; it'll be perfect for when Rachel makes her inevitable debut on Broadway.

But when the cab slows to a stop underneath the hotel's brightly-lit awning, Quinn wonders if the driver perhaps got a bit lost along the way. She casts a questioning look over at Mr. Berry, who fishes a stack of bills from his wallet, then passes them up front to the driver.

"Are we—"

She starts to ask but is cut off abruptly when her door is yanked open and a cheerful voice says, "Good afternoon, ma'am, and Merry Christmas!"

She gapes up at the tuxedo-clad gentleman smiling down at her. He wears a gold-plated name tag and looks to be a concierge of some sort as he extends a gloved hand out to help her from the car. Casting another glance at Mr. Berry, whose twinkling eye simply winks at her, she turns and accepts the gentleman's hand.

She remains spellbound as she follows the concierge through the double doors, her arm linked with Mr. Berry's. The hotel lobby is lavishly decorated for the holidays. There's hardly a square inch that isn't covered in holly, poinsettias, or white-gold lights, and every employee in sight greets her as if they've been expecting no one other than her, and her alone. Quinn's so caught up in the moment that she almost believes them.

Her eyes are wide with wonder, taking it all in as she walks alongside Mr. Berry. Beautiful Christmas tree after beautiful Christmas tree all but blazes a trail for them to follow, through the lobby and under a grand archway, then down a long, carpeted hall. Her heart rate accelerates with every step. Thankfully her mother taught her how to glide across thick carpeting in high heeled shoes without tripping. _First, plant your heel for stability, then slowly transfer the weight to your toes. Pick up your feet, now, but for God's sake, don't stomp!_ It was like military training for any well-groomed Fabray lady. Ironically, Quinn now prefers combat boots.

She nearly loses her balance in the instant Rachel's voice meets her ears. Her voice is singing—a spirited, lively tune. As Quinn moves closer she makes out an equally spirited male baritone accompanying her, along with a piano.

The singing halts, an interlude of low-voiced bickering taking its place momentarily before starting back up again.

It's a slow reveal as Quinn and Mr. Berry make their way up a short flight of stairs, Quinn practically clinging to the banister on her left. _Pick up your feet, Fabray!_ Yeah, stairs aren't great, not in her dangerously unbalanced state. But by the grace of God and Mr. Berry's elbow, she makes it to the top in one piece.

Rachel's voice, the sound that's been reeling her in all this time, guides her about ten steps to the right, where what looks to be the hotel's lounge resides, its double doors thrown open.

She gives Mr. Berry's arm a squeeze as the pair of them step through the doorway.

In one sweeping gaze around the room, Quinn takes in the bar area, the tables and chairs, the low-hanging chandelier, and then, finally, the small stage in the far corner. A smile spreads her lips at the sight of Rachel seated at a piano—center stage, as she would be. The man who is undoubtedly Mr. Berry Two hovers over her right shoulder as Rachel cranes her neck awkwardly, looking up at him. The father-daughter duo are far too busy quarreling to notice Quinn and Mr. Berry One approaching the stage.

"Sweetheart, I was merely suggesting that you sing it deeper, brassier, like the original. And for God's sake, use your vibrato!"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Daddy, with no disrespect to Ms. Garland's iconic contralto, I prefer to sing it _my_ way. I am not an impersonator."

"And what _are_ you two, a comedy act?" Mr. Berry One quips from the foot of the stage.

Rachel's head whips around, her gaze locking instantly with Quinn's. Her heart leaps at the radiant sight before her. She could hold a full-sized coat hanger in the smile that splits her face. Quinn is not only stunning beyond words, but she's here! Her plan worked! Except, dammit, she'd meant to be singing when Quinn walked in! If only her Daddy hadn't decided to Simon Cowell her in the middle of their duet. And what about those rose petals? The concierge was supposed to have been sprinkling them underneath Quinn's feet as she walked.

Regardless, operation "Give Quinn a Christmas to Remember" is going off without a hitch so far. Her Dad has successfully delivered the precious cargo to the hotel that will house the four of them for the next two nights. For years, her fathers have talked of visiting New York for the holidays; when Rachel spent the first hour of her surprise visit to Lima talking of nothing but Quinn this, and Quinn that, they decided they needed to not only meet the girl who'd helped put the light back into their daughter's eyes, but thank her profusely as well.

Fortunately, Hiram Berry is a respected attorney whose wealthy clients in high places owe him more favors than he can count. He'd made a few calls, pulled a few strings, and in no time at all managed to book two rooms at a five-star hotel in Manhattan.

Plane tickets had been much harder to come by, however. And so, late last night, the three of them piled into the car, hillbilly style, they'd made the nine hour drive from Lima to New York City in one stretch.

Rachel can't thank her fathers enough for bringing her to Quinn—and in such a dramatic fashion, no less.

In fact, she's so in awe of Quinn's presence that she's yet to move from her seat at the piano. Both girls are completely transfixed, unable to tear their gaze from one another's.

It takes a little nudge from the Berry men to get them moving. After exchanging an amused look with his husband, Hiram leans in close to Rachel's ear and clears his throat. "Uh, sweetie? It looks like you've got yourself a pretty big fan. Why don't you go and say hello to her?" He then pats his daughter encouragingly on the shoulder. Slowly, Rachel gets to her feet.

Meanwhile, Leroy does his part to get Quinn moving toward the object of her googly eyes. The men might as well be parents of two shy children on the playground.

But the girls aren't nearly as shy as they seem, and as the gap between them closes with every step, Rachel quickens her pace, that coat hanger smile blowing wide across her face as she practically leaps to get to Quinn. She's in mid-air when she worries she might actually tackle the girl to the ground. To her relief, Quinn catches her with open arms.

Shrieks of joy and laughter abound as Quinn lifts Rachel off her feet, spins her around and around.

The Berry men watch through misty eyes, satisfied that all is right. Something about Quinn had struck a chord with them both. Leroy especially had felt a paternal tug at his heart when he'd visited the unsuspecting blonde at her apartment that morning. Perhaps she reminds him of a younger version of himself. Or perhaps he just believes in the girl, for reasons he can't explain.

Whatever the case, it's clear that Quinn Fabray was born to do exactly this: catch Rachel Berry in her arms and lift her up and spin her around, the girl's laughter making music in her ears.

By the time Rachel's feet return to ground, she feels as if she's been around the world in one short flight. Even in the midst of chaos, one look from Quinn lifts her up and takes her someplace beautiful. She can't wait to go there again and again. She'll never get over the view. She'll never stop seeing it for the first time every time.

"Hi," Quinn breathes, hazel orbs wide and swirling with amazed, unbridled joy.

Hi," Rachel replies, her voice hitting a note of mischief as she draws out the word.

"Okay, so...I have questions."

"I have one answer," Rachel says, taking the girl's face between her palms. "I love you, Quinn."

Tears rush to the corners of Quinn's eyes, threatening to cloud her vision. She blinks them back before they get her. She intends to see clearly from now on. She never wants to miss another thing. "I love you, Rachel. I'm so glad you're here. I can't believe you did this."

Rachel tilts her head to the side and smiles. "Well, of course I did, my dear." She shakes her head, thumbs stroking Quinn's cheeks. "Silly girl. Did you think if you put me on a _plane_ that a white pillowy cloud wouldn't just sweep me up and deliver me right back to you?"

Quinn faintly shakes her head. "It's not in my nature to think that anything like this could ever happen to me, Rachel."

Rachel's smile falters. She strokes Quinn's cheek.

"When I came to New York, I didn't have anyone," Quinn continues. "But just knowing you were here, and that we shared the same city, rode the same subway, walked the same streets...it made me feel like I had _you_."

Standing on her tip-toes, Rachel presses their foreheads together, smiling when she feels Quinn's lashes flutter against her own. "I love you, Quinn. I think I knew it when I first walked into that deserted coffee shop and saw you reading all by yourself in the corner."

"Really?" Quinn asks.

Rachel nods.

"Well...I'm afraid my story's a tad more complicated than that," Quinn admits with a chuckle. "Longer, too."

"That's okay. We have all the time in the world for you to tell me all about it," Rachel says as Leroy's fingers begin gliding skillfully up and down the ivory keys. "For now, though, let's just dance and be happy."

It sounds more than alright to Quinn, although there's one thing she'd very much like to do first. She nearly submits a formal request to the Berry men, asking if it might be all right if she please kissed their daughter—but Rachel quickly smothers that idea, with her lips. Quinn kisses her back fervently, pulling her close. Even with her mouth fused to Rachel's she can't help but cast an approval-seeking glance over at the two men, now singing merrily behind the piano while looking on. She gathers from their winking eyes and approval-_giving_ smiles that it's very much a yes from them both.

They dance all afternoon, the two dapper gentlemen serenading their every step. Hours later, it's a different kind of dance, the kind that no one, least of all Rachel's fathers, are there to witness. It's just Rachel and Quinn inside those four walls, the bright eyes of the city peering in through the window, bathing two undressed bodies in new life, big dreams, unending potential.

Being the semi-adults that they are, Quinn and Rachel were left to their own devices, not to mention their own room, the Berry men venturing out to explore the city for the evening. Quinn and Rachel, well, they'd had other explorations in mind, and opted to spend the evening holed up in their cozy high-rise hotel room.

The lights are dim as Rachel tunes the clock radio to some staticy old-time Christmas music, and it vaguely occurs to Quinn that she has no clothes other than the dress she's wearing. She releases a shuddering breath, suddenly so transfixed by Rachel's about-facing frame, now bare-legged and clad in a fluffy white bathrobe (her dress and control-top tights had felt, well, a tad too controlling and tight). The tiny brunette uncorks a bottle of champagne, fills one of two delicate flutes to the brim, shrieking lightly as the liquid bubbles up and over. It's how Quinn feels: bubbling up and over at the sight of Rachel. The short girl's long legs, the backs of them so smooth, their skin like slow-drip honey. Rachel's dark hair, secured in a messy bun, is unbearably sexy, for reasons Quinn's can't even begin to explain. Her toes curl, enough to buckle the carpet. It would take an ice bath to cool her desires.

As always, Quinn's desires scare her. For so long, they've chased her, pursued her down dark alleyways, demanding confrontation. And now, at the end of that alleyway, with nowhere to run, she turns. All is well. Rachel is there. There's no alleyway, no darkness. Nothing to be confronted, either. Only to be embraced.

It's anything but confrontational as she opens herself up, welcomes love in.

Toes and fingers curled, heart thrumming, she crosses the room, moving in behind Rachel. Instinctively, the shorter girl leans back, the fuzzy cloud-like threads of her bathrobe settling softly against Quinn's chest. Her lower half aches as she wraps her arms around Rachel's waist.

Rachel, who had been filling the second flute to the brim with champagne, quickly frees both her trembling hands, needing something not made of glass to grab onto. She swallows thickly, Quinn's closeness igniting her through and through. Truth be told, their proximity in this secluded space had felt fiery from the moment they walked in, as if Quinn could touch her from clear across the room. Her breath hitches when Quinn reaches inside her robe, the sure but gentle hand stroking her lower abdomen.

It's the smoothest expanse of skin Quinn has ever felt. She explores every inch, fingers dipping into Rachel's navel before skimming the utmost edge of her panties. Instead of dipping lower, she slowly moves up, up, first stroking the underside of Rachel's breast, then cupping it fully in her hand. Rachel gasps, her head lolling back as Quinn traces circles around her nipple, coaxing it into hardness.

"Quinn…"

Quinn kisses her jawline, then her ear. Once again, it's like whispering secrets in the dark. "Hi...I love you."

Rachel releases a labored breath. "I love you."

Quinn's hands grow bolder still, working Rachel into a shuddering, whimpering frenzy. They make their way over to the bed—somehow. Rachel may have floated. Quinn may have carried her. Neither can tell the difference, really.

More clothes are shed, until there's nothing left to bare. Hours later, Quinn's lips graze Rachel's sweat covered brow. Rachel swore she'd stay awake—mostly because she doesn't want their night to end—but Quinn can tell the girl is fading.

She smiles to herself. "Just sleep, Rach," she whispers. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Rachel murmurs her assent, Quinn's promise lulling her into a deep and peaceful sleep.

In the year that follows, Rachel grows to love riding the train from New York to New Haven. The distance is long; well, long for two people who can never be close enough. Nevertheless, it's always a good ride. Cleaner than the subway, no doubt. The seats comfortable, the views scenic. And best of all, Quinn smiling, waving on the platform as the train rolls in. Rachel waves excitedly back, then collects her luggage, happy to have arrived.

Always a good ride coming back home to you.

**The End**

**Thanks for reading!**


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